American Cymbeline
by darkwinggirl
Summary: A complete novelization of Shakespeare's Cymbeline, set in a unique fantasy/cyberpunk version of the United States. Cymbeline is the king of California; Iachimo is a Texas cowboy who rides an ostrich; Posthumus is a surfer with a sentient tattoo. Like the play, this story is insane and serious, funny and dramatic, creative and classic. Can be enjoyed without knowledge of the play.
1. The Queen and King of California

**Author's Note:**

**As the summary says, you don't have to have read or seen ****_Cymbeline _****to enjoy this novel. It can stand alone.**

**Still, go read or see ****_Cymbeline._**** It's the best play Shakespeare ever wrote.**

**No, really.**

**_Really. _**

**I don't even remember why I started reading it, back in the summer of 2011, on my computer at midnight. I do remember gluing myself to the screen, falling through the text in a panicked haze, desperate to know what happened next. I finished it in a single sitting and stayed up the rest of the night, hopping around my room, waiting for someone else to wake up so I could tell them ****_how good this freaking play is, oh my god, oh my god, you guys, you don't understand._**** And nobody did. Nobody ever does.**

**_You think that pompous, wispy asswipe Hamlet is a better protagonist than brave, spirited, loving Imogen? WHY?! _****_I'LL KILL YOU!_**

**The novel started as a simple idea: ****_Cymbeline_**** set in the American west. But the U.S. doesn't have kings, so the Fifty States became the Fifty Kingdoms. I wanted modern technology, so the cyberpunk elements appeared. But cell phones could solve everything, and I wanted the Iachimo character to be an ostrich-riding cowboy, so supernatural weather patterns moved in to disrupt communications and transportation. And so on, till the giant world of the novel built itself: mutants and fusion monsters, Vegas oracles and chemical warfare, Odysseus helmets and superpowered Mormons. Everything you never knew you needed when it came to Shakespeare.**

**It's huge. It's complete. And, despite all the decorations, it's still ****_Cymbeline_****. Enjoy.**

* * *

_American Cymbeline_ cast:

Imogen…...…Imogen Alameda

Posthumus Leonatus…...…Leon Sands

Cymbeline…...…Cymbeline Alameda

Queen...…Bianca Alameda

Cloten…...…Travis McGowan

Iachimo…...….Anahuac ("Anna-whack") Jack

Pisanio…...….Hector

Belarius…...…Dr. Kalia Morgan

Guiderius…...…Gideon Alameda/Henry Graham

Arviragus…...…Henry Morgan and Elena Graham

Philario…...…John Falstaff

Caius Lucius…...….General Lloyd

Cornelius…...…The pharmacist

* * *

At ninety-five miles per hour, a four-wheeled cycle the size of an elephant raced up Mission Bay Drive, just ahead of a raging sootstorm. Fancy silver script on its hind tireguard read, "_CLAW._" It had been named for its tendency to claw up pavement when its immense weight and foot-deep treads met the Kingdom of California's increasingly shabby roads.

Driving the Claw was a tiny, sleek figure dressed helmet-to-heel in glittery mica-flecked purple. She bashed a dainty gloved fist on her control screen, which was flickering on and off due to the interference of the weather. Behind her, the dense soot cloud thrashed San Diego, gnawing the roadsign edges.

A hundred yards ahead, a palm tree lost its fight with the wind and snapped into a ninety-degree angle, halving a billboard that declared, "King Cymbeline drinks Jupiter Cola!" Or it had said that until a tagger replaced "Jupiter" with "JIZZ" and an impressive illustration.

The storm caught the woman at last.

She shrieked at the increasing darkness, and when her screen flashed off again, taking her headlight with it, she stood up on the front wheelguard, lifted a knee, and began whanging the whole control panel with her six-inch heel. The Claw careened wildly across both lanes and back. At each swerve, its tires dug zigzag patterns of new potholes.

The screen shattered on the fifth whang and vomited up a satisfying gush of sparks. Feeling better, the woman settled back down on her seat and opened the throttle.

Minutes later she and the storm arrived at Castle Santa Clara, a tall building of mirrored graphene overlooking San Diego's prettiest beach. She didn't quite wait for the retracting iron doors to open for her. The Claw bashed twin imprints of its back tires into them before coming to a crunching, squealing stop in the center of the castle's underground garage.

The doors couldn't close behind the woman, thanks to the damage, but she hopped off her perch and stormed up the concrete steps without a backwards glance.

"FIX IT!" she shrieked at the garage attendant, whose wifebeater tank was already blackened by the soot whipping its way through the broken seal. A door in the stairwell slammed behind her.

The attendant sighed, pulled well-worn scuba goggles over his eyes and nose, and drawled, "'Kay, Your Majesty."

* * *

The woman – Queen Bianca of California – stalked through the castle, nailing heel holes in the carpet imported from the Idaho Empire. A trail of black dust followed her. Filth poured out of her helmet once she managed to wrench it off and dump it carelessly behind her. None of the soot stuck to her face or her sugar-blonde hair.

Behind her, assistants who had been still to the point of invisibility began peeling themselves away from the walls to gather her things. Like most of the workers in the castle, these were _blinders_ – the politically incorrect term for slaves with severe albinism. Bianca had brought the word back into fashion when she purchased an entire set of blinders to go with the castle the day after she married King Cymbeline. At her insistence, each kept his or her white hair long and straight, and they wore crisp white suits. Standing still, they had the impressive appearance of marble statues. "Bianca's blinders" were a large part of Castle Santa Clara's tourist appeal.

"Husband!" she squawked, marching across the visitation hall and sending staff diving for cover. "HUSBAND! COME!"

"Yes, darling?"

King Cymbeline wandered out from behind his throne, engrossed in the large vidpad he carried. He was a reedy, grasshopper-like man, no bigger than his wife, with thick glasses and an aimless way of moving. His crown, a thin circlet of platinum and gold, was a centimeter out of alignment.

Bianca's fingers hardened into hooks at the sight of him. She tried to dress him well – wide suits, shoulderpads, broad lines. Somehow he could never manage to look like a king. Instead he projected, to her and every goddamn camera in California, the image of a slow child playing dress-up.

The queen swallowed her disgust, plastered on a beauty pageant smile, and said, "Hail, hail, hail. Dearest dear, love of my life, defender of my kingdom, lord of my soul. I'm afraid I need someone shot."

The king blinked.

"_Immediately_, please," she added. Her smile creaked as it tugged her plastic cheekbone implants.

"Shot," Cymbeline repeated. He stared at the top pic – a paparazzi-shot of his daughter wrapped around a handsome, tattooed young man – half a minute before clicking the vidpad off, tucking it into his pocket, and turning toward the throne.

Bianca's lip curled. The throne was where the king sat when they argued. The position made him feel powerful.

"Dearest, don't sit," she cooed, trying to keep the broken glass in her throat from reaching her voice. "There's nothing to discuss. It's rather important to me, and the sootstorm is the perfect time, so if you could simply choose another day to be difficult – HUSBAND. I BELIEVE I TOLD YOU TO NOT SIT DOWN."

The small man, whom Bianca often reflected she could break with a well-placed kick, hesitated at her tone of voice, hovering over his throne.

"Who am I to shoot, exactly?" he asked.

"_Have shot_, you adorable man. You're the king. You'll send someone. It's Brotherman Dougal."

Cymbeline winced.

And sat.

Damn him.

"Darling," he began.

"Don't you darling me," she snapped.

"A king can't go around shooting priests, sweetness. Especially priests who are due to testify in a capital treason case in an hour. Tell me what he's done, and I'll make it right after the trial."

"Dougal's not going to testify."

"And why is that?"

"I've already shot him!" Queen Bianca puffed out her lower lip. Why did Cymbeline always have to _question?_ It wasn't like he ever denied her requests.

Cymbeline dug his pathetically thin fingers into his temple, as if he could massage his wife away.

"So you need to give the order and make it official," Bianca pressed. "For me?"

The king frowned. A weak frown.

"For me," she confirmed. "Splendid, darling. Thank you so much. I'll take care of the press. Just needed your seal on the order."

A small wave of Cymbeline's hand prompted the arms of his throne to peel up. One rose to his face and performed a series of scans to confirm his identity. The other opened into a screen and a keypad covered in symbols only the king, his daughter, and his computers could interpret. It was specifically for executive orders such as pre-emptive assassinations. He typed on it, a few bursts of movement, then yanked his fingers back as if burned.

The throne arms folded themselves away.

"Anything else?" Cymbeline asked. "The trial is about to begin, but you could always tell me the verdict now."

"Don't attempt sarcasm, your grace," said Bianca. "You don't have the knack."

Cymbeline pressed the earpiece that jutted from his crown. A small microphone extended down his jawline.

"It's time," he said, and his voice rang through the castle.

The double doors at the end of the throne room opened, and a small procession entered. This would be a private trial, with only the jury for witnesses. It had been scheduled to coincide with the sootstorm because one of the defendants was famous, and no one wanted the paparazzi banging at the castle walls. Not for this.

Once the jurors were assembled – not civilian jurors, but bishops, because treason trials were too important for anyone but kings and god to try – the Schema of San Francisco led the small procession of attorneys and witnesses, who likewise took their places standing.

The defendants were led in last.

They were a couple, a young man and woman, both of them tall and extremely good-looking.

The young man's kind, open face and flashing smile caught almost every eye in the room, including those of the queen, though she adjusted her expression when she caught Cymbeline looking at her, eyebrows up.

He didn't stop looking.

What did he want?

His eyebrows went higher, and he shifted awkwardly. What…

Oh. He'd forgotten his lines.

Delightful. That meant _she_ would run the proceedings.

"Hail," she said.

"Hail, hail, hail," the small crowd answered smartly – including the defendants.

"These lovely people stand here accused of treason against king and country. No need for opening statements, the king watches the news. But we might not need a trial at all!" Bianca trilled out a giggle. She turned to the young man. "Leon Sands. Treason. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty."

Cymbeline suddenly came to life beside Bianca. "And you," he said, blinking hard and gripping his chair, which Bianca knew meant he was trying his utmost to keep himself in the moment.

He licked his lips, then pulled a sentence together. "Imogen Alameda, the charge is treason. How do you plead?"

The young woman set her jaw, stood a hair straighter, and said, "Not guilty, Daddy."


	2. The Trial

The couple was charged with treason because they had gotten married.

Marriage, in the highly religious Kingdom of California, was heavily regulated even for the underclasses. In the wilder northern half of the state it was rumored that they had returned to virginity testing. In any part of the state, a marriage unauthorized by the church was not only void, but criminal.

For royalty, the standards were higher. No person in the direct line of ascension, down to the tenth place, could marry without the express approval of the king and all six Schemas.

Approval was given as a matter of course, assuming the potential spouse in question was relatively wealthy, attractive, and out of trouble with the law, and assuming they agreed to reswear all loyalty oaths to king, god, and country at the wedding. There hadn't been a blocked wedding for twenty years, and the last had been an extreme case (the proposed wife was a Floridian – barely human).

But Cymbeline had not approved of Leon Sands. Imogen had brought the question to the king with a huge smile, and poor Sands had, between the king and the Schemas, gotten only one favorable vote.

Cymbeline looked again, now, over the man who Imogen had chosen to be _future_ king of California.

Leon still wore the golden California Army dress uniform he'd been captured in three days ago. The sword and hat were gone, and the collar was brown with dried blood. Someone had given him trouble in his holding cell, and Cymbeline hoped, for propriety's sake, it hadn't been at Bianca's orders.

His sun-bleached hair, which needed a cut, and his deep tan marked him as what Queen Bianca would have called a "beach bastard." Every spare minute of his time was spent braving San Diego's dark, sooty water. Water infested with eels and crapods, with sharks and their larger, toothier cousins, zarks. All for the sake of surfing.

Surfing was only semi-legal due to its danger, and Leon had no license, but the regulations hadn't been enforced in years. Not since one of Cymbeline's advisers had explained the mathematical fact that letting stupid, parentless, futureless youth take their risks in the water was to the California taxpayer's long-term economic benefit. Dead men collect no welfare.

After hundreds of trips into the tar pit of the Mission Beach waves, Leon remained unscathed except for one broken front tooth, which always showed, because he never stopped smiling.

The gap in his smile was endearing, or ladies thought so, but he had one other physical flaw that wasn't: An enormous stylized tattoo of an attacking zark. It covered the entirety of his left chest, shoulder, and neck, and the zark's outthrust teeth climbed up his chin, halfway across his cheek. A cheap, ugly eyeseore. Nothing he wore could cover it completely. He could smack it all he wanted, but it wasn't smart even as tattoos went, and while it might wriggle down his neck or across his shoulders for a few minutes, it always settled right back on his face. He'd gotten it at the age of fifteen on a whim.

A mark of the kind of man he was. Impulsive. Foolhardy. Predictably penniless. The little money he'd saved from his four years of army salary, he'd spent in a day, bailing a friend out of debt.

Sands was a good enough man for a civilian girl. Brave, and full of grand gestures. Utterly unqualified for kingship.

He grinned up at Cymbeline.

"Let's be clear, I married her, your Majesty," Leon said, standing tall, "Under the zark tank at Sea World. Wish you could have been there. Brotherman Dougal gives a hell of a sermon."

"You confess it? After pleading not guilty?"

"My attorney here says the king can decline to convict regardless of the facts."

"That is my right. But why would I?"

"Well," Leon grinned and winked. Beside Cymbeline, the queen let out the breath she'd been holding, as did several female jurors. "I'm going to try to convince you that I'm worthy of your daughter."

"Please do."

"I've got character witnesses. Brotherman Dougal hasn't shown up, but the Schema'll talk, if you'll let him."

He spread out a long, lean arm and the Schema of San Francisco, a prim, fruity man of about sixty in a foot-high pointy hat, stepped forward.

After the requisite bowing and "hail hail hail"ing, he was allowed to speak.

"Your Majesties," he said – hard not to notice the jury was being utterly ignored by all speakers – "I've had a unique interest in this young man for the past few years. Reason to follow his exploits. You remember my accident in the surf."

Cymbeline did, but he let the Schema retell it.

"I'd forgotten my age, and tried to take up surfing again for the first time in twenty years, here in your lovely city. Hadn't realized how much more dangerous the beaches have gotten. On my second trip out, I was chopped by my own board, knocked half-unconscious, went under. Drank two lungfulls of that poison water, thought that was the end of my story. But this charming young man"

- he indicated Leon, who at some point had obnoxiously wrapped an arm around Imogen's waist –

"saved me. Dove after me, dragged me to shore, performed CPR. Once I'd come to, he even rescued both our boards. He hadn't realized who I was, and when I told him, I offered him a substantial reward – enough to buy his early retirement from the army, right as the Deviant wars were heating up, and men of his rank were regularly getting their heads dissolved off by M-level acids. He waved me off. _Don't worry about it,_ he said. _Common fucking courtesy, dude._ And he went back to surfing.

"After that, I took it upon myself to check on him from time to time. There's a reason I gave him my vote when he applied to marry the princess. He's a war hero, your majesty. Stood guard with only a lead blaster for an hour over two wounded men in the middle of the Battle of Bakersfield – _Bakersfield_, your majesty. He stood, literally _stood_ over them, and you know what that meant. Acid flying, fireballs, the Deviants with their tentacle whips.

"Not only did he survive, he was not wounded, and he took thirteen Deviants down before a pod tunneled up to rescue them.

"I could tell you a dozen more stories like that. His career is full of them. There are only a few medals on his shoulders today, your grace, but that's because he lost others in jail, to your guards, I suspect. This is a man who is willing to make sacrifices. A courageous man. A man whom other men will follow – he set the record for promotion from Novice to Apprentice, and tied it from Apprentice to Journeyman First Class. He's led strikes and charges – "

"Enough!" said Bianca. "We get it. Next witness. If that's okay with you, darling."

"It is," said Cymbeline. He was losing focus; forgetting about his crown, he tried to run a shaky hand through his thin hair, and knocked the whole apparatus off-kilter.

Two more witnesses, both from the army, testified to Leon's bravery. Bianca waved them away as soon as the flavor of stories became clear.

"We understand," she said. "He's an excellent soldier. What I'd like to hear is the story of how he came to imagine marrying Princess Imogen, against the express orders of his king, was _not_ treason."

Here, Leon shifted. The bright, open face fell. "I'd hoped, your majesties, that Brotherman Dougal could help me out there. He knows how much I love Imogen, and that she loves me – talked us through the decision to go ahead. He knows she's more important to me than my own life, and how we hoped that you, and the queen, and everybody, would realize that, and forgive us for thinking –"

"Objection, your grace, he's testifying," said the prosecutor.

"Sustained," said Bianca. "And Dougal's _not_ here, is he, so let's move on. Any other witnesses?"

There was one more, a poor excuse for a reference:

Leon's best friend, Hector. A reedy little Mexican teenager with sharp features and hair down to his shoulders, wearing what must be his father's suit.

"Your testimony can't be worth much," said Cymbeline testily. He was growing antsy – wanted this to be over. "If you're the friend Leon paid seven thousand dollars to bail out of prison, you owe him too much to pretend objectivity."

"But he didn't, your honor! I mean, your grace!" Hector stumbled over his words in a hurry to get them out.

"Until last year, your honor, I was a slave in the house next door to Leon's. I was given free time in the evenings as a kid, and we grew up together. My crime was running from my owners."

"You ran? Why? They were cruel?" asked Bianca, with interest. The slavery question was a hot issue right now, and the royal opinion was that slaves were mostly human, and if they weren't treated kindly, like pet dogs, property rights could conceivably dissolve.

"They wanted to move to Anaheim."

"Is that all?"

"I wanted to stay. With… with the people I grew up with. Cared about."

There was an embarrassed undertone there that Cymbeline didn't understand. Bianca, however, was smiling knowingly.

Hector continued. "Leon got me out of jail, but that was only a couple hundred dollars. The rest of the money – his whole savings – bought my freedom. Once I was sold, the charges were dropped, by the way, I wasn't convicted. Leon gave up everything he had for me. Slept in his car for months, until he could pay rent again."

"And you joined him, I'll bet," Bianca put in, showing all her teeth.

The small man hunched in on himself. "He's my best friend. We shared the car, yeah."

"I've heard enough," said Bianca, "about the heroic Mr. Sands. What about you, sweetie pie? Anything to add? In your defense or your hubby's?"

All eyes turned to Imogen.

It was strange to hear her called _sweetie pie._ The young woman was incredibly tall - she _towered_ over her royal father and stepmother, especially in the high wedge-heeled boots she wore today.

She was a princess, but looked more like a goddess. Her waist-length, ruler-straight auburn hair added the appearance of even more height, and her features were spare and classic. If Imogen stood beside Bianca, as she often did for family portraits, Bianca looked the younger of the two, with her ultra-blonde Shirley Temple curls and girlish makeup.

Imogen wore no makeup. Her skin was tan and flawless. She wore a long gold duster over a cream belted dress, an outfit chosen, no doubt, to make her and Leon look like a matching set. It might have worked if Leon's uniform were clean and pressed.

"Daddy," she said. "Your highness. I chose him for a reason. You know me."

For the first time, she stepped away from Leon, in front of him, as if to protect him from her father. "You've prepared me to be queen someday. Gave me the best tutors, whom I've pleased. Real responsibilities, which I've met. Ambassadors from the three border kingdoms and Mexico report exclusively to me – I'm fluent in Spanish and Oregonian. I hand-wrote the treaty that saved the eternally burning forests for California. The people love me."

"They love you, pumpkin, because you're young and beautiful," said Bianca. "Same reason they love me."

Imogen didn't even look at her. "You've trusted me before, my king. Trust me now. This man, Leon…" she reached behind her without looking, and he caught her hand, wove his fingers through hers, "Is the husband I've chosen. He's honest, kind, smart, brave. The people will follow him. He has time to learn the details of kingship. You have a long life ahead of you – he won't be king for years, decades, we all pray."

"Amen," said the assembly in unison.

"If I were to die, god forbid…" said Cymbeline.

("Amen!")

"You're young and healthy," said Imogen.

"So was your mother. A year older than you are now. Gone. Your older brother, a baby. Gone. Young people die. Answer me honestly, Imogen. Do you think this man – "

Leon's zark tattoo, sensing his nervousness, snapped its teeth and wriggled on his face. His hair hung in his eyes; his inappropriate ear piercings seemed to glow as he was examined, and the mess of his clothing, though it wasn't his fault, testified against him.

"Could rule California tomorrow, if he were needed?"

"No," said Imogen instantly. Confidently.

Leon looked a little surprised, but grinned down at his toes, as if to say, _caught._

"Well then? Why should I let him marry you? Why should I let him _live_, after his act of treason?"

"If you die tomorrow, father, _I_ will rule California. I have the blood and the divine right, and while I live, I will be making the decisions. My spouse will not be my voice. I have my own. Unlike…"

Cymbeline was aware that a braver man, a man sure of himself, who indeed had his own voice, would have silenced Imogen at this point. But he wasn't that man.

Fortunately, because she was stronger than he was, she stopped herself.

"The line of ascendancy will not fall to Leon in the event of _my_ death," she went on. "If I have no children, the First Schema will have the crown. No husband, not even one hand-picked by you, could change that fact. And you asked why you should let him live. Because if you don't, I swear, father, I will never, _never_ forgive you."

Humiliated and angry, but more than that, exhausted, Cymbeline slumped back in his chair. Bianca declared that it was time for a vote.

The young couple, half a head taller than anyone in the courtroom, made a romantic picture, but the jury, who voted in public, returned their "guilties" in sixty seconds.

The king could not have overturned a "not guilty," but he could ignore a "guilty" if he so chose.

Bianca whispered in Cymbeline's ear. Advice, and when he tried to shake his head, an order.

His daughter's words rang in his ears.

It didn't matter.

Bianca _was_ his voice, and he opened his mouth to repeat her words.


	3. The Joystone and the Odysseus Helmet

Imogen sat on her bed, staring down at her lap and her limp hands. Minutes. An hour. She toyed with her bracelet, a priceless artifact recovered from the ruins of Louisiana, which seemed to her now to be nothing but one of her many shackles.

Another, a _real_ shackle, sat around her ankle. A monitor to keep her indoors. She was under house arrest.

A joke of a punishment for treason, but no one had really expected the king to have his daughter executed.

Leon was guilty too, of course. His punishment would be more permanent.

Banishment.

He'd stiffened visibly at the word, and Imogen's skin had prickled.

An unusual punishment. Unexpected. Banishment was usually reserved for political criminals. Those who spoke against the king, who had dangerous ideas. Those people needed to leave, but killing them tended to make them martyrs.

Except, and Imogen knew this as well as anybody, despite the tight hold the church thought it kept on California's speech, banishment was all but synonymous with execution.

The banished never came back.

Some suspected they were dropped to their knees and shot at the border, but Imogen knew her father. Weak and wispy, noncommittal. He'd only twice used his power to give even an official death sentence, both times for nearly-successful assassins.

But the wastelands that cut California off from the rest of North America were nearly as effective killers as bullets.

There were the electricity storms and sootstorms, of course. They raged fiercely outside the cities, where there was plenty of dry earth for fuel and no metal buildings to slow their momentum. The storm that had swept San Diego only yesterday, if met on the wastes, would have been powerful enough to strip a horse and polish its skeleton.

The banished always had their property confiscated. If a relative didn't donate a covered vehicle, a few hours' walking would kill the banished with exposure.

There were clouds of poison gas, or the confounding fogs of Infinity Loops – so named because travelers caught in it found themselves disoriented, and traveled in a predictable figure-eight loop ten miles long, until their supplies ran out. No compass could help you in an Infinity Loop. Magnetic signals were as scrambled as electric ones, that far from the stabilizing towers that kept California's technology civilized.

Then there were the people – well, some of them were people. Some were deviants, mutants. Most were bandits, or at least scum.

There were packs of land zarks, wolves, giant condors.

Rivers of vim lava, lava that looked like water.

Imogen found she wasn't actually afraid for Leon, who had led hundreds of men across the wild wastes and come back, time after time. He would live.

She was afraid for _herself_, because she was going to have to make the journey to meet him. And she would. She'd find a way, ankle monitor or no. Regardless of tabloid opinion, which was against her at the moment for the supposedly imprudent match, Imogen was neither flighty nor immature. She'd chosen well in Leon.

And even if it meant giving up the queenship, she would find him, there in the wild. He was her family now – her _whole_ family, since her father had turned against her and Bianca was less a stepmother than a fanged serpent slithering through the castle.

The door to her bedroom hissed open, making her jump – only she was able to open that door…

Oh, yes, there was one other person, whose voice could open any electronic door in the kingdom. But he'd never used the privilege before.

Cymbeline wandered in, sans crown, gaze on the ceiling, the pictures, the furniture – anywhere but Imogen's face. He'd changed from his court uniform into a simple white shirt and khakis.

He could have been anybody's dad at that moment. Anyone's slightly-off, bespectacled, kindly but misguided father, awkwardly shuffling towards a daughter he would never understand.

Impossible to stay too angry at this hollow man, who should have been born to optometrists, professors, people in any profession but politics. He was simply unfit for the position fate had placed him in.

Imogen shifted on the bed and he sat beside her.

"Today, in court," he said, "You looked exactly like your mother."

Imogen was well aware. By both appearance and personality, she could have been her mother's clone. Tall, strong, dark, proud. There wasn't a speck of her small, tottering father in her.

"Your mother," he went on, "Chose herself for me; I didn't choose her. The decision, you see, was too important to be left to me. My wife was going to rule California, because I couldn't. No opinions, no confidence. My father's advice was to let the pack of candidates – and there were many, even for me – fight amongst themselves, and pick the victor."

"Did they fight in a cage, father?" asked Imogen, amused.

"Might have been cleaner if they did. But they fought like politicians' daughters – arranging events, wrangling invitations, destroying each other's reputations, getting advisers to drop their names in my ear, that sort of thing. The one who was most successful, who always managed to be seated near me, whose name was dropped the most often, who attached herself to my arm at fundraisers and never loosened her grip, one day told me it would be a wise move to marry her. I took the advice – she knew more than me."

Imogen frowned. "You didn't love my mother, then?"

"Oh, no, I did, after the first few months. She took good care of me, and of the country. We'd have been lost without her."

"That's why I remarried so soon after her death. Some people, Genny, need to be told what to do, and I'm one of them. Bianca loves this game – the treaties, the handshakes, the backstabbing. She cares about money, which a king ought to, but I've never had an interest. She follows every penny, knows who's bribing and favoring who. She's a good queen."

Imogen rose, crossed the room, turned. Her father looked like a child, seated on a bed too big for him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"To make you understand two things. First, a princess' choice of husband is extremely important, and you must consider more than romance."

"Father!" Imogen scoffed. "You're right, I am like my mother. My husband will not rule me, or make decisions for the kingdom without my approval. If you think banishing Leon is saving the country, you're mistaken, and you should call him back _now._"

"Second," Cymbeline said, examining the embroidery on Imogen's pillowcases – a recreation of the Battle of El Centro, one of California's most glorious victories against the savage Arizonans – "You are aware Bianca is the one who tracked you and Leon? Who arranged for me to vote against him, and determined his sentence?"

"It doesn't surprise me. Why didn't she make you execute him?"

"She thinks death would make you love him more, but absence will make you forget him. You would do well to listen to her advice, Imogen. She's even arranged something for you. Be civil to her. Be open-minded. Consider."

"Arranged. You mean she's picked out a better husband?"

"She _recommends_ Travis McGowan."

Imogen did her best to restrain a noisy laugh.

"He's an excellent colonel," said Cymbeline.

"He's a terrible person," Imogen snapped. "And stupid as a crapod. He's risen so high in the ranks because he's all bluster and bluff. And because of Bianca's…favor. Surely you can see, father, a man like him doesn't rise through the ranks on merit?"

"He wins battles."

"Luck."

"Was it luck when _Leon_ won battles?"

Imogen pursed her lips. "I guess we'll find out. But I won't be marrying Travis McGowan."

The king rose and tried to brush his fingers, in a fatherly way, down Imogen's long auburn hair, but his fingers tangled. Without another word, he extracted himself and shuffled quickly towards the door.

"Open, on the order of your king" he said, and the door answered, "_Hail, hail, hail_," then slid aside.

And Cymbeline gasped and stumbled back, met with the smiling face of Leon Sands, who said, "Hey, your majesty. I mean, hail."

Bianca was behind him. "Don't question, my king," she said sweetly. "Just a little goodbye. A quicky quick one. You won't say no? Of course not, out you go. I'll take care of them. No shenanigans. Outie out."

The small king found himself pulled out of the room, and Leon was shoved into it. Imogen couldn't be sure what happened after that – what Bianca said to make Cymbeline go away, or who shut the door, or what nonsense Bianca was babbling about true love, because Imogen was in the circle of Leon's arms, his cuffed wrists pulled tight around the small of her back. His hard chest was pressed against her soft one, and his lips were on her mouth, her jawline, her forehead, her ear, her hair.

They made the queen stand ignored, an awkward, unwanted witness, for several minutes before Imogen finally extracted herself and dragged Leon to the spot on her bed where her father had sat. Leon was trying not to show his exhaustion, but the relieved breath that went out of him as he bent his knees for the first time in hours was audible, and he let himself lean on her shoulder in a rare show of physical weakness.

"Poor ducky," said Bianca, "They weren't feeding you well in the holding cell, were they?"

"All the fists I could eat. You said you had the key?"

Smiling conspiratorially, the queen rummaged through her near-empty bra cup and produced a thin magnetic strip.

"What does this mean?" Imogen asked, not trusting, but hopeful. "You've changed your mind about the banishment?"

"The banishment was all your daddy, hon, and I can't do anything about that," said Bianca, blonde curls bouncing over her innocent smile. She couldn't know Cymbeline had accidentally ratted her out – the poor man rarely crossed her. "He wanted execution, you know, by acid injection. So cruel when he's angry! But I talked him out of it, and because I believe in doing these things properly, he didn't argue at my decision that you should be allowed to say goodbye!"

Neither of the lovers were fooled. Bianca was always playing her games. Pretending alliances, giving gifts and favors that cost her nothing, which she managed to make look like sacrifices. She'd want some _real_ favor from Imogen later, no doubt.

Most of Bianca's speech was delivered, not to Imogen, but to Leon, and the queen hadn't pulled up her low collar after adjusting her bra. Imogen was sure Leon could see at least one nipple if he chose to look, but he only had eyes for his wife. He did hold out his cuffs to Bianca, who touched him more than was necessary while applying the strip and entering the code that opened the cuffs. Blood dripped as they clattered to the floor. They'd been programmed to be too tight. He hadn't said a word.

"God," Imogen whispered, kissing the wounds.

"Your highness," Leon whispered into Imogen's hair, but addressing Bianca, "a little privacy, please?"

"Oops, of course! Just want you to know, darlings, though there are such things as wicked stepmothers – I had one myself, bless her very dead heart – I'm not one of them. On your side, ducklings, and I wish it could all work out, though I don't see how it will. Five minutes! Love you!"

And she twinkled out the door.

Imogen and Leon, having had their emotional reunion already, didn't leap back into each other's arms, but only leaned on each other, sitting on the bed, foreheads together, eyes closed.

The past four days had wrung them out. Him more than her, Imogen knew, though he'd never complain. They'd had their wedding in secret, with Hector and the priest as the only witnesses, their hearts pounding. Then there had been the wedding night, at a no-tell motel under an assumed name.

Not that the wedding night had exactly brought anything new. They were modern-minded young people, and had gotten to know each other in every way before their marriage. But they didn't sleep that night, and the chase, and arrest, had come before dawn. Trapped in the castle, Imogen had been panicked and unable to eat, worried about the treatment Leon was receiving, wherever he was being held. Leon, meanwhile, had been receiving all the bad treatment Imogen could dream up – short of the kind that would leave marks where the cameras, which had followed the case and knew the young couple, could detect.

The poor man was practically asleep already, sitting up, from sheer exhaustion.

Imogen didn't know for certain who had tipped off Bianca, but she suspected the leak was her, Imogen's, fault – her blinder assistant, Helen, was the only person who knew about the affair to have advised her against it.

"Genny," Leon whispered, rousing himself. Imogen started. How many of their precious minutes had passed? "We shouldn't make this harder than it needs to be. Word'll get to you. I'll make friends, send them with messages. Montana, Arizona, Utah, we'll find a way. You'll see me again."

He rose suddenly, too quickly, practically knocking her back, and strode to the door. "I should go now – before she comes for me. Bye, babe."

"What?" Imogen had her arms around his waist and was leaning into him, crushing herself on his powerful back muscles, and didn't let him take another step. "Yes, of course I'll see you again, idiot, but that wouldn't be enough goodbye if you were popping out for a surfing round before lunch. Even if you make it through the wastes – "

"No ifs."

"The border storms will keep me from hearing your voice… god, it could be months, years."

"You've never been out of Cali, have you, Princess?" he asked, grinning his broken grin. His fingers were tracing her spare features, her neck, her collarbone. "Nothing to worry about. Not even dangerous, besides the weather."

"And the pirates, and land zarks, savages, radiation zombies, Mormons…"

"There's no such thing as Mormons, babe."

"And you don't have anything – any money – a vehicle – "

"I'll get one."

"You will. And I'm going to make sure you're safe out there. I have something for you." Imogen was surprised to find that her voice broke a little, though no tears came. She wasn't a crier, and the momentary weakness startled her into action. She leapt up, vanished into a closet, came back with a silver box. Inside it was a priceless artifact that made Leon gasp.

"Is that…?"

"An Odysseus helmet. It's real, the very first one – the same one Odysseus S. Grant used to cross the Georgian chaos swamps."

The Odysseus helmet wasn't really a helmet in the traditional sense. It was a thin half-band of platinum that sat on the back of the head, held in place by loops over the ears. From the back of the loop, one long, seemingly fragile wire extended to drop over the forehead, ending in a tiny jeweled triangle. It had only one, seemingly simple, function: imbuing the wearer with an infallible sense of direction.

A priceless treasure for any traveler who wandered further east than the Grand Chasm, where the storms, magnetic spirals, confusion waves emitted by selenium forests, and other horrors of nature made traditional and electronic compasses, never mind human judgment, less than useless.

Priceless only in a metaphorical sense, of course. The thing had a monetary value – millions, tens of millions, of dollars.

"You can't give me this," Leon breathed. His tattoo dashed all the way across his face, down the opposite side of his neck, and disappeared beneath his collar, which meant he was having a bad shock. "This is worth more than three Castle Santa Claras."

"And you're worth three dozen of them. My husband, my prince."

"But – "

"Hush." Imogen fitted the piece herself. The main apparatus disappeared beneath Leon's long, bleached hair, and Imogen smoothed down a few curls on his forehead to cover the hanging jewel.

"Then you'll have something of mine," he said. "Good thing your father's guards don't know value when they see it. They took my gold and silver medals, but didn't touch this."

He struggled with his ear for a moment and removed his tragus ring, a copper band that held what, at a distance, looked like a small amethyst. It _was_ amethyst, but a special kind. The rock had been melted and poured from a tube thinner than a needle into a complicated, beautiful knot. The reformed jewel was smaller than a pea, but, examined closely, was beautiful as a rose, intricate as clockwork.

This was a _yemla_ – or, roughly translated into Californian, a Joystone.

"Not as expensive as your gift," Leon said, "But you know what it means to me."

Imogen certainly did, and she held the tiny earring on the tip of her finger, terrified of dropping it. The jewel, which Leon had had fitted into the copper ring, was a gift from the chief of the Prescott Indian tribe – the only tribe which made _yemla_, and who guarded their trade secrets violently.

A year ago, Leon's regiment had been dispatched into Arizona on the basis of a treaty with the Minutemen. Californians were obliged to help when mutants created by ZDT, a pesticide byproduct the Californians paid to dump in deserted areas of Arizona, grew too numerous and strayed outside their designated reservations. A young girl, a relative of the chief, had been seriously burned on her chest, neck, and right arm by the acidic saliva of a particularly nasty mutant.

Leon, whose vehicle had been destroyed by the mutant pack while he was alone on patrol, had carried the girl, whose name was Mili, fifteen miles through the desert. He had been seriously affected by her intense suffering. She had begun hallucinating several hours in. She had imagined Leon to be the one torturing and burning her, and had cursed him, in Californian and the language of his people.

"I have seen your future," Mili said. "I have torn it down and built it up again. From honor, shame, from fortune, misery, from luck, disaster. You will beg for death, but he will run from you. You will live long, in shame, and though thousands of sunrises pass, your shame will not die with you. This is my revenge."

The curses had degenerated into screams and mindless sobs, and between the girl's suffering and his own exhaustion and thirst, by the time Leon reached a medical refuge, he was near-insane himself.

The poor girl didn't live long enough to know who Leon was, or that he'd been trying to help her, but Leon did get to tell the story of his journey to the tribe's chief.

The chief, grateful for Leon's efforts, and seeing how rattled he was, had given him the _yemla._ With a qualifier.

"Let this be safe with you, and Mili's curse will never touch you. But should it fall into the wrong hands, or should it break, it will protect you no longer, and the curse will descend, stronger and angrier for having waited."

_Yemla_ weren't as rare as Odysseus crowns, but they _were_ rare. The secret method of amethyst-knotting had died with the tribe a month after Leon's encounter, when a chemical fire had ignited the polluted air and evaporated all biological matter in a fifty-mile radius, leaving the tribal land a blasted crater.

Imogen had no tragus piercing, so she undid her belt and a few buttons of her dress, revealing a tan, flat stomach and a ball-latched navel ring. She unscrewed the ball, and threaded the silver navel ring through the copper loop that held the _yemla_. Leon closed the ring for her, and let his fingers drift over her bellybutton, across the lines of her stomach muscles.

For a brief, dizzying moment, Imogen let herself forget where she was and leaned into his touch, letting his warm fingers burn their way across her skin. His other hand rose and buried itself in her long hair, pulled her in to meet his desperate kiss.

There was a rumble outside. Time was up.

"These gifts are promises," Leon whispered. "Not to forget. Swear, Imogen. Swear you won't forget me, when I'm alone in the wastes. You can't forget."

"True," she said with a little laugh. "Couldn't forget if I wanted to, even without the gift, which is going to go to our daughter on her wedding day, and _her_ daughter_._ You're my first, you know. First love, first everything. And last. My husband, no matter how loud Daddy yells _annulment_."

Leon's grinned widened, which Imogen hadn't thought possible. "Then don't marry anyone else while I'm gone."

"I'll consider the _yemla_ my wedding ring," she said, "and the Odysseus helmet will be yours."

"I love you," he said, and then guards were dragging him away. "I'll send for you. Wait."

"Forever," she said, and then he was gone.


	4. An Act of War

"The Arizonan general, my liege," said the blinder at the door, and a striking figure marched into the king's meeting hall.

He was obviously a Meteor Crater native. The meteor in question, a yards-wide rock that had blasted a hole in Arizona, killing thousands and sending up a dust cloud that blocked out the sun and caused a famine, had eventually paid the state back. It emitted waves that mutated and strengthened the people for miles around, until the natives of the area looked like this general:

Absurdly large – over seven feet tall, with width and muscle to match the long frame.

Ageless and raceless, or apparently so. Meteor Crater locals lost all their hair at puberty; their skin tightened, thickened, and developed a plastic-like sheen that never wrinkled, nor allowed for much variation in features. They all looked like their faces had been polished and glazed until their noses, held flat by their tight skin, were barely nubs, and they had no divots above their lips.

Even more noticeable was their skin. No matter what color a person had been initially, a few years near Meteor Crater would leach away all melanin and replace it with an uneven distribution of a greenish-yellow pigment, until, in daylight, they looked like one large, healing bruise.

At night, they glowed in the dark.

People from Meteor Crater were huge and strong, and healthy for decades, immune to all communicable disease, but the place didn't attract hordes of tourists eager to be mutated because around the age of forty, the large, mutated bodies of the crater people gave out. The painful process was called "the cleanse" – as in, your body was cleansed from the inside out, by your organs melting into a stinging basic solution that took much longer than seemed possible to kill you.

However, the general – General Lloyd – who stood before Cymbeline today was at least fifteen years from needing to fear the cleanse. He was a young war hero, not so different from Leon Sands, to his own people, and the king had great respect for him. General Lloyd looked a bit like a time-traveling alien in his navy Minuteman uniform, with its tricorner hat and crossed bandoliers, but he was honest and clear-spoken, which was why Cymbeline had requested him to act as ambassador after the last one had died crossing the wastes.

Unfortunately, Cymbeline did not like the Arizonans whom the general represented. Particularly the Minutemen, their martial governing force, who had extorted California's tax dollars long enough.

"Your highness, and my lady," said Lloyd, bowing deeply first to the king, then to the queen. "You know why I have come."

"Tell us anyway," said Cymbeline dryly.

"After the Battle of the Grand Chasm, thirty years ago, your own grandfather signed the treaty that ended the war between your people and the Minutemen. The duties on both sides were clear and reasonable. Land was allocated according to need, borders were drawn, borders which you have never questioned. The Minutemen who could have invaded and crushed you agreed, instead, to protect you. We have kept the invading New Mexicans at bay for decades, and you know that without us, the continent would have been swept by the Mormons long ago."

"You've done such a good job of suppressing the terrible Mormon forces," Bianca put in, curling her lip, "We're beginning to doubt they exist. You know, Lloyd, we have scouts of our own, who say Utah is a black hole – that the Mormons were exterminated long ago, and the land is empty."

"A lie, good queen," said General Lloyd. His expression didn't change at the accusation, but that didn't say much; crater people found it difficult to move their faces, so they rarely betrayed subtle emotions. "My people are kept busy by the Mormon armies, and yours are kept so safe, they have stopped believing in the existence of danger. Maybe," his voice rose a little, "_that_ is why you have stopped paying tribute?"

He made eye contact with each member of the line of uniformed royalty, all of whom faced him squarely, hands clamped on their armrests. No one said a word.

"I see," he said at last. "No misunderstanding, then. I was expecting some sort of excuse for the delay. Payments intercepted by pirates, no disrespect intended, that sort of thing. No?"

"No," said Cymbeline.

"You have willfully stopped paying tribute."

"The protection of the Minutemen," said the king, "Is no longer considered a necessity by my people."

"The terms of the treaty clearly state – "

"McGowan," Cymbeline interrupted, "Tell General Lloyd how it stands with us. He doesn't like games, and he's in a hurry."

The enormous bald general turned to Travis McGowan, seated at Cymbeline's left. McGowan was handsome, sharply dressed, and brave. Dumb as a crapod, as Imogen had pointed out, but intelligence didn't always serve militiamen well. To the man's credit, he didn't flinch under the giant's stare, but performed his assignment as bravely as could have been hoped for: He stood and carried to the general five flat blocks – hard drives – made of unbreakable graphene edged in gold, bearing the elaborate seal of California.

"One for each of the Minutemen commanders," he said, "Declarations of independence. We're not paying your damn tribute."

Travis had been given a script. The word "damn" had not been in it.

General Lloyd took the graphene tablets and placed them in an inner pocket of his coat. Again he looked down the line, until his gaze settled back on Travis, who stood beneath him, small enough to crush, but every bit as trained as he was, and armed.

The court held its breath – all except Cymbeline, who appreciated the importance of the moment, but knew better than to expect an overreaction from the sensible General Lloyd.

And, after a few seconds, General Lloyd simply said, addressing Travis but speaking loudly enough that his low voice echoed through the chamber, "You are making a mistake."

"Thanks for the advice, _General,_" Travis scoffed. Among the Minutemen, general was a middling rank; the word, with the snide inflection, was meant as an insult.

"It wasn't advice. Or a threat, I'll add, since you all look so nervous. As you point out, I'm only a general, and only here as a messenger; I'm not going to storm the castle myself. But you know my commanders. You know Arpaio, from Tucson – how he trains his soldiers, hundreds of thousands of them. He'll come for the tribute, and he'll get it. Arizonans aren't afraid of your bioweapons; we're immune to the worst viruses Dr. Morgan could throw at us, and you haven't improved your technology since her death. King Cymbeline, I've eaten at your table, danced at your balls. You gave me this post, and I was glad to accept it, and to see more of you, because until now you've been a good king. So it's as a friend I'm telling you, in a war against my people, you will lose. It's not too late to change your mind."

Travis opened his mouth, stepped into General Lloyd's personal space, but Cymbeline barked out an order for him to stand down. "You mean what you say, Lloyd, and I do consider you a friend. Whom I'll be sorry to lose. But you have your message. Take it to your commanders. To Arpaio. California is a sovereign nation, and we are ready to prove it."

Cymbeline was sweating; three cameras peered greedily at him, recording this moment for posterity, and it was important that he make no mistakes. No apologies. No protocol blunders.

He would have, no doubt, if General Lloyd were any other sort of man, because Cymbeline didn't improvise well. But the Minuteman was all respect; he bowed, and said without a trace of anger, "Considering the nature of these documents, and the trouble they're likely to cause your people, I'd appreciate an escort to the border."

"McGowan, send twenty of your best men. Convey him safely," said the king.

General Lloyd bowed again and kissed the hand of the queen before striding out of the hall, and Cymbeline was disappointed to see him go. If his own army were comprised of men like Lloyd, California wouldn't have lost the Battle of the Grand Chasm in the first place, nor would the king need a Bianca at his side, apprising him of plots, backstabbings, what was and wasn't flattery.

Lloyd was honest. The king could only hope he wasn't right; that, if it came to it, California could indeed hold back the Minutemen, and that this calculated display of independence wouldn't be the end of the kingdom itself.


	5. Anahuac Jack

At sunset in the sand-blasted Zzyzx wastes, a cowboy rode ahead of an automated covered wagon. He wore inky black, from his boots and spurs to his wide-brimmed hat; his hair and goatee were black, his guns were black, and his steed, an armored ostrich, was black.

Behind the wagon walked a line of animals, largest first, smallest last, a single-file version of the loading of Noah's Ark. Land zark, red tiger, jackelope, peacock, Gila monster, six kangaroo mice. A hummingbird darted forward and back along the line like a cattle dog, poking anyone who stepped too far to one side.

The side of the covered wagon read _Anahuac Jack's Moving Menagerie – $Three to see, $four to feed, $five to ride._ There was an elaborate but faded painting of the peacock, the rarest and most beautiful piece in his collection, surrounded by other animals, some of which were not, in fact, part of the menagerie, such as a unicorn.

Jack's poor unicorn had died after sucking up a mouthful of vim lava it had mistaken for water.

The cowboy's dark, narrow lips hooked into a smile at the sight ahead – a tiny town called Barstow, where he knew at least ten families with children lived. A gold mine for him; children were his best customers, but they also represented wealthy parents. Who but the obscenely wealthy could afford to keep a child alive in the resource-poor, stifling, overheated, polluted wastes? Parents always ended up paying more than they meant to at Anahuac Jack's shows, one way or another.

At the _Welcome to Barstow ("Home of the acid rain umbrella!")_ _Population 380 _sign, Jack stopped, and his animals, one by one, crawled into the wagon. Even the ostrich had to go. A tight fit, but it would only be for a few hours, and everybody had to do unpleasant things for money these days.

His boot heels had barely touched the city limits when a store-front door opened beside him and a tall young man was tossed out at his feet.

The young man, tousled, tattooed, and handsome, grinned up at Jack with a broken tooth and genuine pleasure sparkling in his eyes. A strange bird. His earrings and long curls gave him a feminine air, but he was big, and wore a military uniform that looked like it had been into and out of the Grand Chasm twice. His firm skin, thick hair, and obvious good health meant he couldn't have been in the area long. This was a city boy.

"Howdy," said Jack, pulling the man to his feet.

"Thanks, pal," answered the young man, who walked with Jack down the main road, and turned out to be named Leon.

Jack couldn't say exactly why, but he instantly liked Leon – and that, despite not liking humans as a rule. Maybe it was the friendly face and smile, or the fact that, with his duster, boots, and long hair, Leon was nearly a golden mirror image of himself. They were a similar age, and even had similar facial markings. Jack had a splash of dermal implants covering the left upper side of his face, though unlike Leon's zark tattoo, Jack's implants had a function.

"Come on, kid," Jack said, "Be my date at the Digloo. You can buy me a drink."

The Digloo was a brown faux-adobe building in the shape of an igloo, one of only two bars in town. Leon had been kicked out of the other.

"Forget to pay?" asked Jack calmly, as they walked. "Happens to me sometimes."

"It was about a girl."

"Kid, don't _ever_ get in a fight over a broad. Ain't one of 'em worth it, not one."

"Mine is."

The kid's smile was downright cute. Jack felt as if he'd found a puppy in the road, instead of a grown-ass man.

"I'm sure she's pretty, bud, lots of 'em are. But all of 'em, and I mean _all_, are crazy as that dust-devil over there. Even yours."

"See, this is the kind of talk that got me in the fight. Don't keep it up – my clothes can't take much more."

Indeed, the knees and elbows of Leon's uniform – gold, which probably meant California army, though who could be sure, with the Fifty Kingdoms swarming through regimes like bees in a honeycomb – had been punched through in his fall.

"No sweat, kid," said Jack. "Barstow's a gambling town. We'll win enough for new digs in an hour."

The Digloo welcomed them. Its owner, a leathery middle-aged woman with an extra, fishy eye beside her mouth, hollered, "Look who's back, it's Anahuac Jack!", as if she'd been saving up the three-word rhyme. She yanked Jack into a dusty hug, and, after looking over the handsome Leon, gave him a big squeeze, too. Leon grinned at Jack over the woman's head, and Jack found himself liking the stupid kid more and more. Something about that friendly face, and the way he took random crap with a genuine smile.

"Kept the stage ready for you, as always," said the three-eyed woman.

There was an empty karaoke stage at the back of the Digloo. Always empty. The people of Barstow, most of whom were rich refugees, their wives and children, or half-dead miners, weren't singers.

The space was perfect for Jack's occasional appearances, however. His wagon loaded itself through a cargo door and up onto the stage, where it sat, peacock picture facing out.

"Under the peacock it says 'Henrietta, queen of the peacocks,'" Leon observed, closely examining the painting. "Aren't all peacocks male?"

"Quiet, buster, these people don't know that," said Jack. "Let the guys tell their families I'm here, let 'em get drunk and in a spending mood, then we bring out my act, the centerpiece of which is a _female_ peacock, so don't ruin it for me."

"You're what, a magician? Animal trainer?"

"Simply an entertainer, son." Though Jack was only in his late twenties, he tended to call everyone _son_ or, for some women, _baby._

"You said they'll bring their families. Are kids allowed in a bar?"

"Boy, you _must_ be from California. Only kingdom in the fifty that still enforces drinking ages. Too much religion over there for anybody's good. That's what got you kicked out, right? Said something nasty about the pastor?"

"We're Franciscan, so no pastors, but something like that. An illegal marriage."

"The girl. Your perfect ladyfriend."

"That's the one."

"Lois!" Jack called. He pulled two chairs up to a table with three seated men in the middle of a card game, and without anyone's permission, seated himself and tossed his hat and booted feet up on the felt. "My friend here's buying the first round," he told the cardplayers.

The cowboy watched Leon's face, and as he'd predicted, the blonde, grinning man took no offense at Jack's obnoxiousness. Must have plenty of money, in addition to his good nature. Jack would keep him around a while.

Leon ended up buying three rounds for the table, though he won a high-stakes round at the cards and got some of his money back. Jack had let him win, of course. He was a Texan, and nobody around here beat him at Texas Hold'em unless he chose to let them. They won once in a while, they kept playing, and mostly losing, until they got good and drunk and lost more.

As they played, the men talked, and Jack learned Leon's story, though without real names, he was assured. Quickie marriage, politician's daughter – someone high enough on the totem pole to have the king banish the poor kid. The kid was taking it well, though he had a chronic case for this supposedly world-class chick he'd run off with.

"I'll see her again, soon as I'm settled, and that's all that matters," said Leon, happily shelling out a few more bucks. "I can work anywhere, do anything; militia in any of the big forty-eight will have me, except maybe Flordia; hear they're superstitious about tattoos. We'll be all right."

When the game got difficult due to the volume of screaming children, Jack decided it was time to put on his show. Lois knew what to do; the bar lights were dimmed, the stage lights went up, and the rickety microphone shrieked out interference, silencing the crowd.

Straight from his table, Jack leapt to the stage, hat in hand, and began his spiel:

"Ladies and gentlemen, not-so-gentle men, children of all species, are you in for a treat, and I don't mean a measly Wasteland treat, a couple roasted sugar _nopales_ with the spines still attached. No, we're talking a Texas-sized treat, from your favorite cowboy – " he took a deep bow, knowing his lithe, bendable body was itself a treat in these parts, so full of beaten-down, slouching, rock-shaped people – "Anna! Whack! Jack! Anahuac's a little city in East Texas, donchano, a magical place, an itty bitty Eden, where North America's endangered _and extinct_ species lists aren't quite so accurate. Where the lamb lies down with the lion, as you say around here, or in this case, the jackelope lies down with the land zark."

As he spoke, the covered wagon unfolded itself; the oiled gallium cloth parted like curtains, though with more sparking and creaking, to reveal a miniature circus ring, complete with a tiny round, raised platform, upon which sat Jack's jackelope – an antlered rabbit so rare they were rumored, except in Arizona, where the savages knew better, to be myth.

The children in the crowd gasped and the adults laughed. The silly critter didn't do much; just sat sniffling around the edges of its platform, being cute, drawing the crowd closer.

"Oh, now, darn it all, where'd my land zark go?" Wringing his hat, Jack put on a show of trying to find the creature.

"Gotta keep an eye on 'em, you know," he said in a stage whisper, exaggerating his twang, "'Cause if they get hungry before a performance, their co-stars tend to go missing, too, and then this turns into Anahuac Jack, the Solo Act."

From the whispers and gasps of the children – the adults had seen this all before – Jack knew that, right on cue, one of his land zark's claws was emerging over his head, stretching towards him under the proscenium arch.

Not that he needed the sound. He could see through one of the zark's eyes, as he could see through one eye of all his animals. Each of the dermal implants on his face gave him an optic connection, as well as a mental connection, should he choose to activate it, to each of his pets.

Currently, only six of his mental attachments were active – one for each of his kangaroo mice, who weren't part of the show, but were hidden in the crowd, watching the patrons and carefully tracking where their money was pulled from, how thick the wallet or wad in question was, and how closely the moneyholder was guarding it.

In time, the zark, a horse-sized reptile with lobstered armor, curly teeth, and foot-long spines, fully descended. It did its bit of threatening Jack and cuddling with the jackelope, and Jack began to collect money. The animals were thoroughly tame, and smart as small children; they wouldn't bite an audience member, but would put on a vicious, snarling display if any human tried to pet them or feed them without first inserting money into the little port backpacks they wore. Three kids were plopped onto the land zark's back, and it vibrated in fury until the parents inserted every cent of the fifteen dollars they owed.

A toddler in the audience was two-headed, and Jack generously told the zark to stop growling; the kid – kids? – would only be charged once.

The hummingbird and Gila monster were next, in a bit where the Gila monster slowly, clumsily tried to sneak up on the bird and catch it with its froglike poison tongue, but the hummingbird kept narrowly escaping. This was Jack's least favorite bit. There was some real danger involved. Should the hummingbird forget itself, it could end up touching the toxic goo, one of the most poisonous substances on earth. Jack had a genuine affection for his animals, even outside their monetary value.

In the audience, at this point, the mice were hard at work: Gnawing at pockets, slipping into boots, tugging bills from wallets foolishly left open on tables.

The tiger made its rounds, roaring, and got great applause.

And already, half an hour in, it was time for the final act.

"People," said Jack, "And others. A moment of silence, please, for the lovely lady you've all been waiting for. You're going to like this, folks. Raise your glasses to the best in the west, the showgirl like no girl… Henrietta."

The crowd obligingly went quiet. From inside the wagon, after a few scratchy moments, recorded music began to play. First a quiet thrumming, then the twinkle of chimes and a seductive flute.

A tiny, curtained door behind the pedestal, until now only part of the backdrop, shook slightly, and parted. A tiny, teardrop-shaped, cerulean head peeked through, blinking wet eyes black and deep as a chaos swamp.

Scanning the crowd, Jack searched for his new friend, and found Leon as entranced as everybody else.

Henrietta wore a tiny crown of looped rhinestones. The sparkling loops spilled like chain mail down her long neck and across her sleek blue body and striped wings, which emerged an inch at a time.

Good old Henrietta. She really was a female, a queen, in her heart, as Jack was well aware, since he shared a mind link with her.

She placed one polished, dainty claw on the platform, looked around, waited until the next deep _thump_ in the music, and placed her other foot. The bird knew how to work up a crowd; she let them admire one beautiful part of her at a time, slowly, deliberate with her gifts as a stripper, keeping the tail stretched behind her, half-covered in the curtains, for as long as possible. Jack had often reflected that the bird was a better performer than any human showgirl, and could hold a crowd longer; you could find a naked lady anywhere, but peacocks were, unlike tigers and zarks and the rest, mythical creatures. Rare as unicorns, which is to say, the only place you could see one was in Anahuac Jack's traveling show.

Then the music grew louder. The long tail, multilayered, full, folded like a geisha's fan, bounced into view. Henrietta hypnotized the crowd, young and old, bouncing the tail, fluffing it, threatening to, but not quite, unfolding it, until the last possible moment, three minutes into the music.

Up went the tail, to gasps and applause. A perfect half-circle, four feet long, green and purple and teal, with golden eyes spaced in a symmetrical formation every two inches, for layers and layers.

This was the key moment – the moment the mice could work unimpeded.

Wallets skittered off tables, cash ran down legs, pearls disappeared from wrinkled gray necks.

The tail moved from side to side; its front was displayed, then its back, in a powerful, beautiful, exotic dance… and the music faded.

Dainty as a ballerina, the bird bowed and left the stage to wild applause, leaving a single feather on the podium like Cinderella's shoe.

Spry and sober, unlike his audience, Jack snatched the feather up, leapt off the pathetic stage, and placed the feather in the long hair of a prettyish girl in the front row, who glowed and trailed her rough fingertips down his sleeves as he drew away, saying,

"That's all for tonight, folks, Anahuac Jack's packing up. Thank y'all for your time."

The larger animals, which had been crawling around the bar collecting treats, touches, and money, turned as if mechanized, and hurried back to the stage. Before the shouts of "encore" could begin, they'd vanished into the wagon, which had folded its metal cloth and damaged mural back into place, and was wandering toward the cargo door.

Leon and his grin approached, and Jack found his forearms caught in a firm grip.

"Hell of a show," said Leon. "How do you train them? Where do you get them? Really?"

"Really, son, you ought to know a cowboy never reveals his secrets."

Then Lois was up in his face, arms around him, squashing her large chest against him and blinking her three eyes dreamily.

"How come you don't never stay more than one night, Jack?" she asked. "You don't even stay a night, just a couple hours. Always you gotta run right after the show, and we don't see you again for months, years, even."

"It's my way, ma'am," Jack said sadly, tipping his hat. "Turn into a pumpkin at midnight, you know. Bye, sweetheart."

He managed to not flinch as he kissed her cheek, beside the third, fishy eye, and called for a toast to his dear old friend Lois. A dozen glasses were drained, which was good for Lois and Jack – Lois, for the extra money the men would spend on drinks, and Jack, because the drunker the people were, the less likely they were to notice anything wrong until morning.

"Can't we stay?" Leon began to ask, but Jack pulled him out the door. Funny how he was assuming the kid would go with him, and liked the idea.

"Nope. It's my way, and the way of any good magician. Leave 'em wanting more. Anyway, I got all the money I was gonna get out of 'em. They won't be back tomorrow, and I prefer to sleep on the road. Got a vehicle? You can come with. Heading east."

They had to walk back up the road to collect Leon's transport, which Jack whistled at when it came into view. "A _Claw_, huh? They let you take one of those into banishment, or did you buy it at the border?"

"Neither. I've got a friend who worked in the queen's garage. She'd damaged this and told him to toss it, and he met me with it at the city border. What's wrong?"

Jack was frowning, scanning the horizon nervously. "Looks almost like sunrise out there, don't it, kid?"

"Yeah, it does."

Though it was pushing midnight, a soft, pinkish light was pushing up from the horizon, lighting the underside of rows and rows of mammatus clouds. Beautiful, but, to Jack, sinister.

"Storm's coming," he said. "Be here before morning. You got a cover on that thing? Can you sleep in it?"

"Yeah," said Leon, "But still, a lot can go wrong out there. Might be better to try the hotel, even though it doesn't look – "

A giant hand clapped onto his shoulders – and another onto Jack's.

"Where you going," rumbled the anvil-bodied miner behind them, "with my money, handsome?" It was one of Jack's audience members. A kangaroo mouse had climbed into his boot and removed six hundred-dollar bills during the peacock dance, if Jack remembered correctly. And he always did, when it came to money.

Jack considered drawing his gun.

Unnecessary.

Leon, the smiling kid, crushed the miner's fist and laid him flat in three quick moves.

"What in the-" Jack started to say.

He was interrupted by a throaty, non-human cry from the direction of the Digloo. Three enormous, round-shouldered, troll-like men had punched their way out.

More faces appeared in the dim light. Angry faces, large faces, attached to powerful miner fists.

"That's him!" one cried pointing in Jack and Leon's direction. "There he is!"

"That bastard!"

"Where you going, stranger? You got something of mine!"

As one, Jack and Leon turned and ran.

To Jack's immense surprise, Leon laughed as he ran, and with a wobbly, apologetic grin, panted, "They recognized me. Looks like there's a reward for my capture. Sorry, bro."

They'd reached the _Claw._ A kick from Leon brought it to life.

"It's okay," Leon said calmly. "I'll get out of your hair. You don't need any more trouble from me. Thanks for the show, man."

The simple, moronic bastard. He thought the crowd was after him. Jack could have rolled over laughing.

Instead, he whistled three piercing notes, and his ostrich burst out of the wagon.

"What are you aiming for? Utah?"

"Canada," said Leon.

"I'll get you as far as Newberry."

"Can that bird keep up?"

"Watch your mouth."

Then they were off, riding towards the storm, the noisy crowd at their heels. The covered wagon stayed tightly on their trail, but at such high speeds, it couldn't run stable; it bounced, jostled, and swung wildly side-to-side in its attempt to keep within its programmed minimum distance of Jack.

Between the ostrich and the Claw, they tore up the desert sand, leaving a cloud behind them that the headlights of Barstow's single search vehicle could barely pierce, and within half an hour they were out of reach of the small mob.

Jack's new friend threw back his head, laughing, and thanked the cowboy for sticking with him. They settled into a walking pace. Still the storm brewed, coming closer every minute, and Jack didn't feel comfortable unloading his animals.

"We're gonna have to pack up long before it gets here," Jack said, pulling a black bandana from his collar up over his ears and mouth. "Storms around these parts sometimes do a rising sneak."

"A rising sneak?"

"They look far off, right? But feel how thin the air is – that means it's a low-pressure system. It's a vacuum, sucking in the atmosphere. Once in a while, if the clouds rise too quickly, that vacuum sucks in more than air. It'll pull up the topsoil, and everything attached to it, for miles arou-"

And then it happened. Jack's lungs closed; there was no sound. They were off the ground, the Claw was floating, the dirt rose around them and between them in thin sheets, walls.

Sound returned seconds later, when they were a mile from where they'd begun, upside-down and bombarded on all sides, sucked right into the center of a deadly sootstorm.


	6. The Infinity Loop

It was morning, and perfectly still, and Jack lay staring up at the clear sky. Its western half was still pink from the residual emissions of the storm, but the air tasted clean, and after long minutes, the cowboy got to his feet.

He'd only been trapped outside in the storm for a few minutes. His blessed wagon had found him, first drawn by its programming, then actually blown into him. Those few minutes outside it had been bad – bad enough to blind and choke him, to coat the inside of his lungs with glassy, hot soot, to take the first layer of skin off his face and slam him into debris of all kinds, leaving him with open wounds and innumerable bruises.

A few more minutes would have killed him. Might in fact have killed Leon, who was nowhere in sight.

And the ostrich. Polly. Where was she?

The dermal implant that connected his vision to hers was sending him static. The mental link was gone. Couldn't think about that now, he had to get to the others…

The hours in the wagon had only been marginally better than they would have been out in the storm. He was protected from the blasting soot, yes, but the wagon had spun and slammed through the storm like a tennis ball. A tennis ball full of armored, spined, clawed, feathered, screeching, terrified animals. They all had their places, of course, their cubbies which latched for such an event, so Jack hadn't crushed them while he tumbled in the middle of the wagon, smacking up against the sides. But they'd stuck their claws through their bars, and he knew the jackelope's antlers had at least partially broken off at some point in the storm, because he'd been tossed against their pointy, painful remnants hundreds of times.

Henrietta had lost feathers, too, and the tiger was moaning.

It had been pitch-black in there, and Jack had only just stumbled out into the air a few minutes ago. He'd bent over, holding in his vomit, and collapsed on his back, needing time to get his head together, after having the animals scream in his head for upwards of two hours. Or days, years, who knew, in a sootstorm. Now the moment had come to tackle the damage.

The tiger had a broken leg which had to be encased in bone-setting gel; it would take at least two agonizing hours for the healing to be complete. The jackelope had lost his entire right antler, and Jack shot off the left, to even the poor thing's skull out. The antlers would regrow, but it could take as long as a year for the animal to be show-ready again.

Henrietta wasn't in too bad a shape. Her tail wasn't perfect, but was still beautiful – good enough to attract petting-zoo types and bring in a little honest money. Everybody else was fine.

The condenser took longer than normal to pull water from the parched air, but when everybody had drunk their fill, and the tiger's leg had set, they began their procession again, same as yesterday, same as every day... minus Polly the ostrich. Recognizing a mountain formation, Jack roughly calculated their location and trudged toward Newberry Springs, a two-day journey.

Except the day passed – in a haze, with a few head-injury-induced time lapses, but still, Jack knew it had been hours – and the mountains hadn't moved. They'd begun on his right and remained on his right.

He stopped for dinner. His recently-healed skin screamed as he sat.

Still the mountains hadn't moved. How slow was he going?

They came across Polly's skeleton.

Sensing Jack's distress, the animals gathered around him as he stood staring down at Polly's small skull with its enormous, gaping eye holes.

Hands shaking, Jack tied his handkerchief around the staring eye sockets, not a blindfold, but his way of putting the sweet friend to rest. There was no time for a funeral…

But Jack held one. An hour of vigil, a few silent tears. He had no words for the loss. Polly had been with him for ten years, and Jack loved his pets more than he had ever loved a human. It was the loss of a dear, dear friend, and the only thing that kept him from staying by the body all day and into the night was the fact that his other animals needed shelter. He walked on, miserable and drained.

Twilight came. The mountains still hadn't moved.

And they came upon Polly's skeleton again.

Jack actually jumped at the sight. He hadn't been paying too much attention – just walking, one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, trying to get those mountains to move, and he nearly tripped over the skull.

The bandana was still wrapped around it.

Cold terror wriggled its way through Jack's every vein.

He was caught in an Infinity Loop.

The animals felt his fear. Any control over the mental connections had left him somewhere in the middle of that tumble through the storm, and his channels were wide open. He saw himself through the eyes of his animal friends: withering already, his face hollowed out, his dapper clothes in tatters, his hat a flat, rumpled wreck.

Staring, horrified eyes.

His whole life on the wastes, he'd managed to avoid getting caught in one of these damn things. Having suffered terribly in the past after not bringing enough water on a couple of his journeys, Jack's biggest fear was dying of thirst. And that's how you died in an Infinity Loop.

And everybody, _everybody_ who fell into one died.

An Infinity Loop held you in thrall, mangled your sense of direction. No matter how far you traveled, how many clues you used to keep yourself in a straight line (keep that forest on your left, look back and make sure your footsteps aren't curving, follow the path of the sun, follow the river, _head straight for that unmoving point on the horizon, dammit_) you traveled in a figure-eight. Some Loops were two miles long, some twenty, but they couldn't be beaten by humans or machines.

And they moved, drifting like hurricanes over the land, which was why they couldn't be set on maps, to warn travelers.

Well, it was one reason. The other was that they were, in several senses, invisible. People who went into them took days, weeks to die, depending on the supplies they'd brought along, and you never knew if they'd died or simply lost contact; in the best of times, travel through the wastes was slow, and communication, slower.

Once an Infinity Loop left an area, evidence remained: Tracks in the figure-eight pattern, sometimes worn feet deep by large groups. Journals thrown to the ground told the horrifying stories of the damned people caught in the Loop. Some were made into books, one of which Jack had been assigned in school. It had given him nightmares.

He remembered how the author had written that every time his group turned, swearing to walk perpendicular to the path their own footprints had made by crossing a spot dozens of times, they would look down and in seconds find themselves right back on it.

Madness came. Then thirst. The author wrote of the group's desperate prayers, wrote prayers of his own.

Then the writing petered into a wild, dehydrated screed, and stopped.

That was how Jack was going to die, clawing at mirages for water, and his menagerie would die with him. He'd led them to this. He had the decency to be glad poor, sweet Leon had probably died in the storm.

The water condenser's battery needed to be recharged every three days. That meant Jack would be dead in five. The big animals might have an extra day of suffering.

Damn it all.

The thieving, the adventures, the women, the animals, the fun… for it to end this way. For Anahuac Jack to die crawling, begging… god.

He set up camp for the night – for once, with no defenses. He slept with only a blanket, on the unsettled sand, his menagerie surrounding him, the mice nestled in his pockets. A rare luxury, sleeping under the stars. No signs of storms on the horizon. All dangerous animal life, if there was any left, would be underground for a week, in a mini-hibernation. There was no point in them walking aboveground when all the prey animals had been scoured dead.

He dreamed the condenser pump was broken already. The animals were screaming for water, bleeding out of their eyes, crying.

Hot blazing sunlight woke him. He emptied the pump, watering everybody fully, including himself. The battery indicator was nearly at the half-mark. Nothing to be done. It made barely enough water to keep the group going; none could be saved; it had to be run. Run down.

Like him.

He walked.

All day.

Trying navigation tricks, though he knew it was useless.

He pulled a sturdy wire from the undercarriage of the wagon and used it to trace the horizon line: A bend here for that mountain, a dip here for that gorge, a wobbly spot for the crunch of dead cacti. He held it in front of him, like a cattle brand, keeping the wrinkled line exactly parallel to the horizon, matching its curves to the mountains in the distance. This _had_ to put him in a straight line.

But walk and concentrate as he would, sooner or later, he would blink, and he'd find his wire didn't match the horizon line any longer. He'd turned. When had he turned? Was it really possible the mountain he'd been chasing was now at his back?

He'd turn and face that mountain again, and find it at his back again.

Polly's blind skull lay on the ground beside him five times.

The fifth time, he removed his bandana from the skull, and fitted it around his own eyes, as he was getting a headache. And since his eyes were deceiving him, it wasn't like he needed them.

Jack trudged on. Never fell; the Loop's path was smooth, soft, unchanging.

He was hypnotized. Sick with heat, with fear.

Then a hand clapped on his shoulder.

Jack spun like an axlebeast, tossed an elbow at his assailant, drew his gun, all in half a second.

In the next half second, he was on his back, inhaling the blood from a split lip, and his gun was gone.

"Sorry, bro," said Leon. Jack could _hear_ the bastard grinning. "Didn't know you were jumpy like that."

"And I didn't know you had them moves," said Jack mushily, tugging down his blindfold. "The hell _was_ that? Karate?" The blonde man had nailed him three places and flattened him as easily as Jack could flip a pancake.

"Just how I roll." Leon tossed Jack's gun back to him. "I fought in the Deviant Wars; you can't be hesitating in the ZDT dumps. Strike first, ask questions later, that's what they taught us."

"Won't do you much good here, I'm afraid. An Infinity Loop. What a way to go."

As Jack was beginning to find predictable, Leon laughed. "Not to worry, dude."

_A surfer_, Jack thought. The kid had to be a surfer; nobody else could be so damn relaxed about being caught in a slow-working death trap.

The cowboy sat in the shade of his wagon while Leon rummaged through compartments on the side of the Claw, which had survived the storm, though one of its wheels was partially deflated due to being impaled with a land zark spine. Leon located a box and carefully removed layers and layers of close-packed newspaper before he found what he was looking for: a piece of jewelry, looked like, thin and sparkling. Some kind of orienting headgear. He placed it over his ears.

"Those don't work out here, kid," said Jack sadly. "The electrical interference scrambles orienters. Unless it's a genuine Odysseus helmet, we're stuck."

The speech only earned him a big wink.

With his curly blonde hair, exotic tattoo, deep tan, and the metal piece sparkling around his head, Leon looked like some kind of tribal desert god.

"Couldn't hurt to try," he said. "We're aiming for Newberry Springs, right? Due east? Follow me."

Sighing, Jack heaved himself to his feet, adjusted his hat, and followed.

The animals trailed behind, slow, crushed by Jack's despair.

Jack was secretly a little disappointed to have found Leon. He didn't want to watch the kid die any more than he did the animals, especially because it was his fault the kid ended up in the storm in the first place. If the mob Jack robbed hadn't chased them out of town, the kid would be safe in a hotel right now, not getting his hopes up over a worthless piece of metal he'd probably been sold by some toothless wasteland huckster.

They walked. Mountain on the right. Again. At lunch, the mountain seemed to Jack to possibly have moved a little, but he'd imagined that before.

After lunch, the mountain kept moving. It was still to the right, but behind them now.

And they hadn't crossed Polly's skull again.

By nightfall, to Jack's utter astonishment, they were able to set up camp at the base of a line of tiny foothills, and Leon was laughing his ass off at the cowboy's dumbfounded expression. The animals were hopping around in delight; the hummingbird, Moth, whose tiny body was often overwhelmed by Jack's big human emotions, buzzed in circles around the camp like she was trying to set it on fire.

"I'll be damned," Jack said at last. "I. Will. Be. Damned. We're out. What the hell kind of orienter is that? 'Cause I need it, kid – I'll buy it off you, name your price. Ain't getting stuck in one of those again for all the gold in the Grand Chasm."

"You can't buy one," said Leon, "Anywhere. They don't make them anymore, and I'm not selling. I mean, I _would_ sell it to you if you could afford it – getting lost's not a big issue for me – but it's got sentimental value."

"But what _is_ it?"

Leon positively sparkled. He removed the orienter and placed it in Jack's dusty hands – casually, as if it hadn't just been the means of saving their lives, as if an orienter that functioned in an Infinity Loop weren't worth the Claw, the wagon, and their lives put together.

"You said it yourself, dude," Leon said with a chuckle. "Only a genuine Odysseus helmet could've got us out of there. It was my wife's wedding gift to me. Told you she was something special."

The cowboy ran his fingers over the thing. Not nearly as fragile, nor as light, as it looked. Once-sharp edges were rounded, as if it had been polished many times, and on the inside, the metal was discolored with age and use. Its thickest components were etched with filigree that could very well be from the era of the War of Northern Aggression.

Still, was it possible? Only three Odysseus helmets had ever been made, or so the story went. One for Odysseus S. Grant himself, by the chief Union engineer. They took a year to make, so only two more had been manufactured – one for the engineer himself, who destroyed it upon being captured, and one for the victorious Confederate president Jefferson Davis, who convinced the engineer to make another, apparently through torture. This third helmet was later found to have the built-in flaw of electrocuting its wearer after a year had passed. Davis' death shattered the Confederacy, but not before the engineer was executed by being slowly lowered into an alligator pit, and the secret of the helmet construction died with him.

"If it's real," Jack began.

"No _ifs_, buddy. It's real. The one, the first one."

"If it's real, it's worth millions."

Leon calmly spitted two franks and placed them over the fire.

"Like I said, not for sale, but yeah."

Jack's fingers clenched around the thin platinum ring. He could be gone with it by morning. He'd disable the Claw, not permanently, just enough to slow Leon down, the kid wouldn't be able to track him on foot, and this would be it; a last criminal act, and he could settle down with his animals, buy himself a stage with an endangered animal sanctuary out back. No more mice in boots, no more five dollar rides. Hell, he'd let kids ride the tiger for free, because why not, with the money he could make from the sale – the _legitimate_ sale of this impossibly valuable object, this historical treasure Leon didn't have the sense to keep a secret or to auction off.

But Jack remembered how Leon had laid him out. How he'd crunched the fist of the Barstow miner. Maybe, for once, honesty would be the best policy. The kid was pliable, though he didn't know it. Good-natured. Maybe he could be convinced to sell, at Jack's vastly low estimate, of course.

Or maybe he'd be willing to gamble the thing away. If he were properly loosened up.

After stroking his goatee and straightening his collar, Jack handed the crown back to Leon and watched to make sure it was placed right back in its box, repacked in paper, and safely placed in the Claw's cargo hold. Then, pulling a baggie of leaves from deep in his pocket, said,

"Time for a celebration. Ever have purple peyote, kid?"

Leon laughed. "Hells yeah, and I'd like some more. Goes well with army-issued hot dogs, so that's lucky."

"Wouldn't know. I'm a vegetarian."

"Seriously?"

"Kid, one of my mice dies, I hold a three-ring funeral. I ain't eatin' animals. _You_ eat, we'll smoke, and you tell me more about this girlfriend of yours, because I am very. Damn. Curious."


	7. Dr Morgan and Her Victims

The hall was empty, save the king and the princess – and the blinders, always there, mute marble statues spaced at regular intervals against the walls. The king had called Imogen here, and here waited patiently to hear what he had to say.

Cymbeline paced away from Imogen, and at a distance, turned back. Their reflections stretched out beside them on the heavily glazed tile, giving Imogen the sense that they stood in the center of a lake, and if she took a single step, she could sink straight down, peacefully and silently, into the still water.

"I lost your mother," Cymbeline said at last. "Never expected it. To die in childbirth, even twenty years ago, was practically unheard of in California. As strange as dying of smallpox. We're civilized people – we die in car wrecks, graphene implosions. Or of old age. I didn't believe until I'd seen her body. Then your brother."

Imgen had seen many pictures of her older brother, Gideon, who had died at the age of four. He'd looked like her, and like their mother: Tan, auburn-haired, with a wide forehead and small, sharp features.

"Four years old," Cymbeline continued, "Perfectly healthy. Then he was sick, then he was dead. A day."

Both Cymbeline and Imogen knew very well it hadn't been this simple, in either case. Both had been tended by a Dr. Morgan, who was now believed by everyone to have murdered both her royal patients.

The good doctor had been hired by Cymbeline after her work in the campaign against a Mexican invasion. She'd been head of the biological warfare division, and had invented horrific, quick-spreading diseases and their vaccines. Two thousand Mexicans had died in three days, and after the initiation of the biological attacks, surrender was achieved without the loss of a single Californian life. Several of the diseases, along with Dr. Morgan's other frightening inventions, including nightmarish poisons and growth potions, were still kept in storage, and had held many would-be attackers at bay. They were the nuclear option, however, because without Dr. Morgan's complete understanding of them, and uncanny ability to develop both vaccines and cures for her own creations, they were a risk as much to Californians as to invaders.

She had been an excellent doctor, and had seen Queen Innogen through the birth of her son, then Imogen's birth.

An hour after Imogen's birth, Innogen had an aneurysm and died instantly. An investigation had been conducted. Nothing was concluded.

Cymbeline, for whatever reason, continued to trust Dr. Morgan.

Dr. Morgan had had a son, the same age as Gideon, and the two had been raised together in the castle, as best friends. The two had taken a trip to Disneyland together, under Dr. Morgan's care.

The boys had come back sick. With a vicious, fast-acting, hitherto unheard-of bacterial infection. Spores, black and blue, had risen over their bodies, swelling and deforming them. Both boys were in terrible pain.

And already rumors were flying. The good doctor, despite having saved Californian lives, was considered something of a Frankenstein – a good character to have locked away in some army testing facility, less wholesome to keep in court. Especially after overseeing the death of the queen. Now, here she was, a creator of horrifying diseases left in charge of a prince for a single day, and he came back diseased. Who _wouldn't_ have suspected something?

The boys grew worse. It became clear that a full recovery wouldn't be possible; the spores had reached bone, and neither child would walk normally again.

Dr. Morgan worked quickly, panicking, trying to save both boys.

She failed. Twenty-four hours, and it was over, and the people were screaming for her blood. One of the loudest screamers was a blonde courtier named, at the time, Bianca Minola.

_She infected them both_, the people said, _infected her own son as an alibi for murdering the prince. She was alone with the queen when she died. Died in childbirth? Queen Innogen was strong, healthy – why would she have died in childbirth?_

Imogen didn't know what exactly had been done to Dr. Morgan, but she knew what the video records showed:

The doctor, flanked by two enormous guards, was guided behind a hospital curtain, out of sight of the cameras. She was followed by Cymbeline.

Two minutes later, Cymbeline stepped back into view, alone.

The doctor was never seen again. She was presumed dead. It was said the king had shot her himself behind that curtain.

Imogen had seen these videos because of a security leak to the paparazzi. Someone had been trying to incriminate the king, to get the people to rise against this act of justice without trial.

But overnight, the king's popularity had doubled, and there had been no backlash. Previously, Cymbeline had been called weak. The sight of him acting, without permission, to defend his family, had secured his place in the hearts of his people for many years. To this day, people who didn't deserve trials were called "Dr. Morgans."

"But father," said Imogen, "What do my mother and brother dying have to do with Leon?"

"First," said Cymbeline, "I've lost enough members of my family. I don't want to lose you, too, and that's what would happen, Imogen, if you married him."

"I wouldn't go anywhere."

"But you would. Imprudent marriages tear whole families apart, extended families. You and I would fight over Leon's every terrible decision. We'd fight over your children – how to raise them, who should raise them. You aren't familiar with San Diego peasants, hon, but I am, and I guarantee Leon didn't wear a shirt or shoes before the age of twelve. The girls he grew up with dropped out of high school. They have three, four kids by now. He's probably the father of some of them. Is he going to raise a daughter like you, Imogen? Respectable? Dignified?"

"Was there a second reason, father?"

"I could die at any time. You need a husband who will support you, not a burden, a dog to housetrain."

Imogen dared a step forward. The watery tile didn't swallow her up. Another step, another, until she stood over her father, literally over him – she was half a foot taller than he, and, she knew, far stronger.

"I am not like you, my king," she said.

"You certainly aren't."

Indeed, at her birth, Imogen knew, paternity testing had been done as a matter of course, and a good thing it had been, since she hadn't a shred of Cymbeline in her face or body.

"Walk with me," said Cymbeline, and Imogen put her arm through his – an awkward fit. The double doors of the courtroom opened before them, and they wandered down a hallway – sunlit transparent graphene on their right, overlooking the dark waves of Mission Beach, elaborate murals on their left. Beneath them, in the castle grounds, the usual crew of courtiers were visible.

"Look at them, Imogen," Cymbeline said. "Do any of them look like Leon? Will he fit in here?"

"My mind is made up, father," said Imogen.

"And so is mine!" The king wrenched his arm from hers. "You are twenty years old, and you have led the life of a princess. It's time to act like one. Should I choose for you, Imogen?"

The princess shut her mouth. Her father had never before raised his voice to her, and she was surprised at the pain it caused her – and at the pain she heard, struggling to stay contained in kingly dignity.

"You mean," she said, trying to keep her dignity, "Should _your wife_ choose for me? Let her try. Let her drag me to the altar. I wish you all the luck in the fifty kingdoms, because you will surely need it, my lord and master."

And she spun on one high, booted heel.

Only to find herself face-to-face with Travis McGowan.

She'd taken a step too soon, and ran into his chest; though she didn't fall, his hands were suddenly grasping her sides, as if to steady her, and they didn't let go quite quickly enough. His eyes met hers, and he smiled broadly. Too broadly. Showing off perfect, capped, white teeth.

"Hail, princess," he said, and bowed, so close his hair almost brushed her face. "Hail, hail, hail, my king."

He passed them by – but one hand trailed across Imogen's belly as he went, leaving her gaping in shock.

And fury. He'd touched the _yemla_, Leon's wedding gift, through her clothing. The jewel Leon had placed himself, that was more sacred to her than her own life.

"Be civil," said Cymbeline sharply, seeing her expression. "In a month, Arpaio's men will be at our borders, and Travis McGowan will meet them. You are to have dinner with him tomorrow night, outside the castle, in view of every camera in California, and you are to smile through it, Imogen. He is Bianca's choice."

Imogen spun and stalked back to her room, long hair flying behind her like a sail.


	8. Bianca's Plan and Travis' Charms

The pharmacist, a square-jawed, muscular, no-nonsense type, stared at the queen, eyebrows pulled into an obnoxious _are you kidding me_ expression.

"Come again?" she said.

Bianca could have clawed her face off.

"You heard me. Immediately, please. Doctor Rommel will verify."

The pharmacist pinched her thick lips together, turned, and disappeared into the back of the pharmacy, where rows of pills and vials were kept.

Bianca clicked her fingernails on the counter. A queen shouldn't need a prescription. Not even for Pasitherol, an odorless, colorless, tasteless poison. It was an ingredient in Euthanol, and normally could only be issued to veterinarians. But queens needed to poison people sometimes. It was in the job description.

Tap tap tap. What was _taking_ so long?

The pharmacist returned holding a bag. An ordinary prescription bag, and bless her heart, it was even labeled _Amoxicilin._ Bianca had underestimated the woman.

"Thank you so much, darling," said the queen, and twinkled away. For once, someone had done their job in this stinking castle.

* * *

"Why are you smiling?" asked the physician's assistant, a stocky blinder with round black glasses.

The physician sighed. Her assistant was a touch _too_ good – paid so much attention, it was impossible to have even the tiniest secrets.

"Filled a prescription for the queen," she said. "And you know what I think of the queen."

The assistant's lips thinned. For all his squirmy nerdiness, he had a rebellious streak in him, largely nurtured by Bianca's terrible treatment of all the castle slaves.

"The prescription," the pharmacist went on, "was for Pasitherol."

Her assistant gasped. His glasses nearly fell off, and the pharmacist laughed out loud.

"Don't worry," she said. "I filled it. With Comatrox."

Her assistant changed colors – white to red, to white again. He laughed a little, too, but nervously.

Comatrox was a drug ordinarily reserved for palace spies; as far as the public knew, it didn't even exist. It had proven extremely useful over the years.

It had a simple function: to fake the symptoms of death.

For a full twenty-four hours, it reduced lifesigns to all but nil. The heart would beat perhaps once a minute; body temperature would drop twenty degrees; nerve endings shut down, eliminating all automatic reaction to stimuli, such as pupil dilation or the knee-jerk.

Within a day or two, depending on the dosage, a person who took Comatrox would wake all at once – perhaps a little thirsty, and sometimes suffering short-term amnesia, but otherwise perfectly healthy.

Truly, it was a miracle drug. The kind only Dr. Morgan could have developed, the type that hadn't been replicated or improved on in the two decades since her loss. It was constantly used by spies who needed to fake their own deaths. Its only downside was the danger of being buried – or worse, cremated – alive.

"You know what this means," said the pharmacist to her assistant.

"Think so."

"Tell me."

"If there are any palace deaths by poison in the next few days, we need to convince Fred to postpone the autopsies for at least twenty-four hours."

"Good man," said the pharmacist. "I knew we hired you for a reason."

They smiled at each other, a mentor and mentee sharing a job well done, and neither one of them was bothered at all by the fact that they'd committed treason. There was a lot of it going around, these days. Whatever Cymbeline might think about Bianca's diplomatic skills, the fact was, she inspired rebellion.

Something about the hair. You wanted to take the bounce out of it. One way or another.

* * *

Travis McGowan checked himself in the full-length, three-way mirror, and said, "What's the bitch gonna do, turn me down?"

He wore his military uniform, crisp and pressed, and his dark hair was carefully spiked and gelled. Thank god for Bianca, who hated the jarhead look, and had convinced Cymbeline to ease the hair-length restrictions in the militia.

Travis knew it was Bianca who had done it, because she'd told him so, in bed, the day she'd gotten the order signed. They'd laughed about it: the weak, stupid king and his inability to say no to his queen.

"It'll be the same with you," she'd promised him, "After you marry Imogen. The girl's just like her father, spineless, childish, no class, no judgment. Oh, she thinks she's hot stuff because Daddy lets her sit in a few chairs, put her names on treaties, shake hands at the photo-ops. But she's spoiled – hates for anything to be difficult – and ruling a country is difficult. She'll come to you for help, every day asking you to run a little more, and in a year or two, you'll be running this country. She'll make you First Schema when you ask, and you'll be next in line for the crown."

Bianca hated her husband, and repeatedly whispered into Travis' ear her fantasies of poisoning the tiny man once she'd safely married the princess off to Travis.

"It'll be so slow, so subtle, nobody will dream of poison," said Bianca. "I've got one that's undetectable; the royal doctor was hired by yours truly after baby Gideon died and the famous Dr. Morgan was banished. My doctor can concoct a poison that'll kill you however slowly or quickly you want, and make it look like pneumonia, blood cancer, whatever. And if poison _is_ detected, so? They won't suspect me. Me, who will be at his bedside day and night, nursing him, bawling my eyes out. Me, who'll wipe his poor forehead and change his diapers and never, never give up hope of his recovery. I'll stop eating while he's sick – can always stand to lose a few pounds before a televised funeral – and they'll say, _look at Bianca, wasting away. It's a broken heart. That's true love_. And on and on, god, I could throw up. Then Cymbeline will be dead, and you'll be king, because Imogen will die "in childbirth" just like her mother, and we'll marry each other. You'll be king and I'll be queen and the Alamedas will be nobody's problem."

Travis hadn't found Imogen exactly as pliable as Bianca made her out to be. He'd thought, handsome and charming as he was, he'd get her under his spell in a minute; turned out, he'd been too late. She'd preferred the piece of beach trash Leon Sands, whom Travis outranked, who had no money, who hadn't ever been in the royal court, for god's sake.

Bianca had attributed it to childishness. "It's the earrings, darling, the tattoos. You see what kind of girl she is. Nineteen years old and still acting like a seventh-grader. _Daddy, I love him! He's a rebel!_ And she shakes her head and stamps her foot and won't consider, for the teeniest second, the possibility that the first piece of brainless muscle to stick his tongue down her throat might not be exactly what California needs for a leader."

"Think I ought to get a tattoo like Leon's?" Travis asked with a frown.

"Yes, dear, a giant zark across your face, and twelve earrings to match. A brilliant idea. Christ. In any case, the infatuation with Leon will pass once he's out of the way, and she'll see what's in front of her."

Travis was twice as handsome as Leon, in his own opinion, and twice as badass.

At the dining hall last week, where Imogen was required to sit beside Cymbeline, though no one could make her eat, an old courtier had made a reference to her lover:

"Are you worried about him, sweetie?" the man had said, without breaking the rules and naming Leon Sands.

Travis had leapt to his feet and punched the man, knocking out two teeth. "You implying she'd feel sorry for a _traitor?_" he'd yelled. "You _dare_ to insult your princess?"

Imogen hadn't acted impressed at the time; she'd pretended, in fact, to be horrified; but Travis knew chicks. He hadn't met one yet who wasn't flattered by having a punch thrown in her honor.

And only today, Travis had, with Bianca's cooperation, gotten a servant fired for not remembering to say "Hail" as Imogen passed by. He'd made a hell of a scene about it.

Oh, the princess had pretended to be upset – had begged Bianca not to fire the girl, who it unfortunately turned out was pregnant – but chicks loved chivalry, and once the crying girl was out of the room, Imogen had given Travis a good, long look, up and down and back up, and straightened, sticking out her chin and tits nicely, before heading back to her room for the night.

Anybody who took a good look at Travis couldn't fail to be impressed. Now it was a matter of waiting, and playing the right cards at the right time. Flowers, music. Chick stuff.

Travis planted himself outside Imogen's door with an iPod and speakers, put on a playlist of chick music, and sat with his back to the door. Sooner or later, Imogen would have to come out. She'd yell at him to turn it down, but that would just be an excuse to talk to him. Chicks loved to be chased. By him, at least. He'd never yet met a girl who didn't give in once she saw Travis wasn't going to take no for an answer.

A blinder stationed in the hallway stood by awkwardly for three songs before asking, "What if she doesn't come out, Corporal?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, you've been at it for nine minutes, and she hasn't come yet."

Travis leaned back with his head on his hands, careful not to muss his spikes. "It's a good sign."

"Really."

"If the music pissed her off, she'd have come out right away. Since she's waiting, it means she wants to make me suffer. The longer she waits, the more she cares what I think."

"Ah," said the blinder. "Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't. A very clever catch-22 you've imagined, sir."

"Leave," said Travis, "Before I decide I don't like your tone."

The blinder bowed deep before disappearing.

* * *

The music was awful, loud, infuriating, and Imogen had no earplugs. She'd never needed them.

She'd put in a phone call to staff asking them to clean Travis off her doorstep permanently, and been told that the queen had expressly granted the man permission to stay.

So she'd waited, and waited. Felt like forever, but probably only an hour. The princess, with all her virtues, was, unfortunately, impatient.

After pacing, infuriated, for a while, and debating with herself, holding the argument in her head, she planted her palm on the seal and slid her door open. Travis, who had apparently fallen asleep against said door, flopped right onto her feet with an "Urgh."

He collected himself quickly, though, staring up and letting one of his eyebrows rise in what had to be an attempt at sexy. "Princess. Knew you'd see reason."

"I only came out to tell you to leave. Your music…" Imogen stomped on the speaker system three times, crushing the flimsy iPod and ending the racket. "Is unbearable. You are unbearable. I'm saying this in a way you can't misinterpret, so listen carefully: I hate you. Go away. Don't come back."

He'd climbed to his feet, and moved as if to enter her bedroom – like she'd invited him in, for god's sake! – but Imogen stood her ground, blocking the doorway with her frame, which was as long as his. They stood eye to eye, and once again, Travis was too close, invading her bubble, breathing on her.

"I've got a better idea," Travis said, smiling. "How about you stop being a spoiled, ungrateful bitch for two seconds?"

"Ungrateful!"

"Do you know what they're saying about you out there?"

He was up, up in her face, way too close, his teeth snapping as he talked, and Imogen was afraid he was going to bite her. Or kiss her. Who knew what he had permission to try, with Bianca running this insane asylum?

"They're saying," Travis continued, "That your monthly wardrobe costs the taxpayers more than a policeman makes in a year. That for the price of your education, we could have built another Golden Gate Bridge. That the hair you're so proud of gets styled to the tune of two thousand dollars a year while peasants on the beach are starving, and that it's kind of not fair, seeing how the most work you did to earn it was working your way through your mommy's royal vagina."

If it was true that Imogen had never exactly done a hard days work, she had also never been spoken to in this tone of voice, and for all her righteous anger, shock overpowered her, keeping her silent long enough for Travis to continue.

"They're saying that they expected a reward for the millions of dollars it took to polish your worthless ass, and that the least anyone expects of you is not throwing a temper tantrum in your room because the _king and queen_ want you to sit down to dinner with a guy you don't particularly like."

He backed away, letting Imogen breathe. She was trying to find an answer to the accusation – there was a lot wrong with it, she knew, because of course there was more to it than sitting down to dinner with Travis, and of course it wasn't just a dinner…

But he'd planted guilt in her mind, and it stuck, roadblocking her thoughts.

Leon was her husband, she wouldn't compromise. But staying in her room… was that immature of her?

"I don't want to marry you," she said at last.

"You don't know what you want."

Imogen moved to touch the "close" panel; Travis caught her wrist, and squeezed tighter when she struggled.

"It wouldn't be anything," he said. "Arranged marriages are never about love. You wouldn't even have to talk to me. Show up in the bedroom once a year, give me a couple posts, we'll have good-looking kids and sit next to each other at banquets. That's all anybody wants from you. Screw Leon on the side, if you want… if you can find him. All anyone's asking is for you to keep up appearances, and in exchange for the _extremely expensive lifestyle_ you've got for yourself, frankly, it's not a lot."

He released her wrist at last, stood back, brushed down his uniform, which had wrinkled slightly from his nap on the floor.

"Am I so bad?" he asked. "Take two seconds to look at me like a grownup, and ask if I'm so disgusting you can't live with me for the sake of the country that made you a princess."

A confident hand gesture, sweeping himself from head to toe, showed he thought he wasn't disgusting at all. And from an objective, clinical viewpoint, maybe he wasn't.

He was handsome, by any reasonable standard. He had Leon's surfer body, tan and all, without the tacky tattoo and earrings. His spiked dark hair was stylish, and his features were chiseled enough to have gotten him put on, or at the top of, every "Sexiest Royals" list published in the country – and that was out of a crop of extremely sexy, surgically enhanced courtiers.

"As good as Leon, at least," he said. "I outrank him. I've got more money. And, what's especially important…"

Travis seemed to remember at this point that he was striving to be romantic, and he managed to shock Imogen again by sliding to one knee. "I'm in love with you," he said. "You're beautiful, babe. Princess. Give me a shot. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, give you whatever you want. I'll put a rock on your finger so big you won't be able to lift it. I'll close every beach in this country to hold our wedding. Buy you an island, a plane, another castle, whatever you want, babe, I'll give it to you, and I know for a damn fact Leon Sands can't say _that_, because he didn't think you were worth getting a wedding ring."

"That's not…" Imogen shook her head. The man wasn't worth arguing with.

"One other thing to consider," Travis quickly said. "A deal. You have dinner with me. I get your ankle monitor off."

The ankle monitor. Getting it off would get her halfway to seeing Leon again.

Imogen paused and considered.


	9. The Wager

Leon's eyes were red with the peyote, and Jack knew they matched his own. The men had eaten dinner, sat leaning on their respective vehicles, and had a good couple hours' talk, passing the pipe.

"The princess, huh?" Jack repeated for the fifth time. "The actual princess of California?"

At first, Leon had tried to impress him by stating the girl's full name – "_Imogen Alameda_" – as if expecting the admittedly pretty words to induce some kind of reaction. Jack had stared at him, blinking. He traveled the continent, in a different kingdom every day, and could do no more than name five or six of the most famous political leaders. He couldn't even identify most kingdoms by flag, as the designs changed so often. Borders were meaningless to him; princesses certainly weren't worth keeping track of.

But he appreciated the gravity of Leon's situation, and had a new respect for the man.

Not once did he doubt Leon's story. If he had, the Odysseus helmet (which Leon was currently letting Jack hold again) would have been proof enough. Just a few minutes ago, he had stumbled dizzily on his way to a bush. Leon had suggested testing the helmet, to see if it could work through a buzz, and it had. With the cool, light metal resting over Jack's ears, the peyote haze had cleared, and he'd walked a straight line to the bush and back six times; though his sense of direction had been fixed by the helmet, his drug-induced sense of humor was still in place, and he'd giggled like a little girl at the fantastic invention.

"Still," Jack said after a while, stroking his goatee and staring into the fire, "You can't go back for her, man."

"I'm hoping she'll come to me, but if they won't let her out of the castle, I'll have to risk it."

"No, kid. You don't understand. I'll rephrase." Jack lifted his hat and did his best to make eye contact with the grinning cityboy. _"Don't_ go back for her."

"It's not as dangerous as-"

"I'm not talking danger, you dumbass. I'm talking common sense. She's not worth it. You've got this crown, you've got your skills. A chick's not worth crossing the wastes for twice."

The bastard did what he always did in response to everything – a punch in the face, a joke, a gift, an insult: he grinned. "Mine is."

"No." The drug haze made this important to Jack; he leaned forward, bending his long body almost in half, endangering his hat by bringing it too close to the fire. "I've traveled all over the continent. Made love to women in every kingdom, every damn city. Tried to make it work with ten, twelve of 'em, and if I know anything about the world, it's this: _Never trust a woman._ Never. They're crazy, kid. Crazy. Eyelashes, nail polish, makeup – it's to hide the crazy. Lipstick, so you don't notice they can't say two sentences that aren't the exact damn opposite of each other. Pretty dresses, so you can't see the zipper up their backs that's keeping the demons trapped inside."

He'd been gripping the Odysseus helmet dangerously hard, though a human probably wasn't strong enough to break it; Leon noticed, and took it back from him, whistling.

"Sounds like you got a broken heart, bro."

"Just trust me, man. Princess or not – in fact, her being a princess makes it worse – you stay gone a month, you go back, guarantee you'll trip over another fella on your way to her bed."

Well, how about that. He'd done it at last – gotten Leon's smile to disappear.

"Imogen would never cheat," he said.

"Oh, it's not cheating, kid – never is. She'll have been confused. Lonely. She thought you were dead, she thought you never loved her, she drank too much tea, she had gas. It'll be _your_ fault, somehow, and you'll be the bad guy for judging."

"No."

"No?"

"Not her. Not Imogen. She swore to wait forever, and she'd do it, for me."

Jack pulled his hat over his face to hide a laugh. Incredible. How had this innocent, trusting bastard made it through the wastes? Made it through boot camp, through battles, survived a day on his own?

The kid blinked at the fire, stubborn, lip stuck out. Young and angry. And strong, couldn't forget that, because the urge was still in Jack – to knock the kid out and steal that damn Odysseus helmet, and he'd act on it, friend or not, if he hadn't been sure Leon had the ability to tear him apart and feed him to his own land zark. Brute strength to balance out his wild naivete.

"Tell you what, kid," said Jack. "You're a betting man. I'll make a bet with you."

Leon blinked. His zark tattoo, which normally sat in profile, swiveled toward Jack and fixed both eyes on him, making him more nervous than he ought to be.

"What kind of bet?"

"You need a message delivered to your girlfriend, right? I'll deliver it. Record a video, I'll take it to her. Love San Diego, haven't been in a while, and I've got ways to get into castles."

"But what's the bet?"

"I'll bet you that Odysseus helmet I can have your girlfriend in bed within twenty-four hours of meeting her."

Well, he'd gotten Leon laughing again, but it wasn't his usual, easy laugh. It was a little forced. "Even if Imogen was the type, which she's not, and even if she weren't monitored and under house arrest…"

"That's nothing to me, kid. Like I said, I have my ways."

"Even _if_ she'd cheat, twenty-four hours? You're not that good-looking."

Now Jack was the one who dropped his smile. "Yes I am."

No doubt sensing his distress, Henrietta the peacock shuffled up behind him. Jack watched himself through her right eye, and found himself handsome as ever: whip-thin, sleek, a damn fine figure in black, with chiseled features and devilish facial hair. Even the bird couldn't resist him. She jumped, heavy, onto his shoulder, and laid her long blue neck across his collarbone. Her tail wrapped protectively around his back, and he had the sensation he'd just put on a not-terribly-comfortable coat.

"Bet me that helmet," Jack said. "I want it. You've got nothing to lose."

"But what do I get when I win?" asked Leon.

"Told you I travel all over the continent, kid. You can't do that without knowing a thing or two, and one of the things I know is how to get documents. Specifically, passports. Light-rail tickets. Amnesty cards. In short, free passes to New York, Canada, wherever. Hell, I can get you and your lady to the moon if you want to go."

Leon sat up. "You could get us to Canada? You'd do that?"

"Shake my hand on the bet, and I will."

The young man leaned forward, hand out, and Jack couldn't believe it would be this easy, but Leon seemed to come to himself at the last second, and his hand jerked away. So there was _some_ self-preservation instinct hidden behind all the stupid.

"A couple conditions," Leon said.

They talked.

The terms were settled.

First, "have your girlfriend in bed" meant consensual sex, which Jack agreed to without a second thought.

How would he prove it had happened?

_Don't worry about it, that's on me. I'll convince you. Ladies always have something special, something unique, to remember them by. I'll know it when I see it._

Could Jack prove his ability to produce Canadian passports? Yes he could. A trip to a hidden compartment in the wagon settled that. Jack was able to produce a messy pile of every form of identification known to man and mutant, at least five for every state, many with alternate names, 'shopped pictures, forged signatures and seals and everything else a man might need. He even had a few with pictures of people other than himself: Women, children, men of different ages and races. He'd done some smuggling work, and kept the extra IDs around, because you never knew when you'd need to move a friend who didn't look like you. Or travel in disguise.

Leon was not allowed to drop any hint of the bet to Imogen in his message to her.

If Jack could, through charm or bribery (which Leon allowed as a tactic, convinced Imogen couldn't be bought for any price, not even escape from the castle) bed Imogen within a day of knowing her, and convince Leon he'd done it, he'd have the Odysseus helmet, no strings attached.

If he couldn't, he'd get Leon and Imogen the documents they needed to get to Canada, and freedom.

"Best bet I ever made," said Leon. "I can't lose. She won't sleep with you – and, by the way, if you touch her without her permission, I'll find out about it and make you eat your own body, starting with your dick and ending with your heart – but in an alternate universe, if she did, I still wouldn't have lost anything."

It took Jack a bit to recover from Leon's threat, and there was a several-second pause in what had been an animated conversation. For a moment, the sparkle Leon's his eyes had vanished; the cheerful, handsome features had hardened, and the innocent surfer kid had turned into a stone corpse, a soulless, empty-eyed devil, casually letting out not a threat, but an absolute goddamn promise.

If it had ever crossed Jack's mind that he might be able to pressure this Imogen girl into bed – not that he'd need to, and not that he'd go so far as all-out rape, but still, the possibility of using a little force had been twitching along somewhere in his brain – the idea died. Jack wouldn't break that part of his oath, because Leon wouldn't break his. The sweet, curly-haired, grinning boy would kill Jack horribly if the princess were hurt by this bet.

"What do you mean," he said, when he was convinced Leon's soul had returned to his body, "You wouldn't have lost anything? You'd lose your girlfriend."

"Wife," said Leon. "But if she'd sleep with some cowboy from the wastes within a month of getting married, she wouldn't really be my wife, would she? The king would have his annulment, because I wouldn't touch that again. I married a faithful woman, not some stranger, some spoiled, lying whore; if she's a whore, she's not the woman I married. If she slept with you, I'd lose a worthless slut, and gain a friend; hell, I'd give you the Odysseus helmet anyway, for opening my eyes and getting me away from her before we had kids. You'd have saved me."

_Wise man_, thought Jack. He knew better than most that being attached to a faithless woman – also known, these days, as a _woman_ – was about as bad as it got. A man was better off on his own, able to choose his friends, or his pets, and leave them to get lost in a Loop if they let him down.

He'd leave, Leon's message in hand, in the morning. And really, he'd be doing the kid a favor.

He didn't emphasize to poor Leon that the handsome, mysterious cowboy had never, not once in his near-thirty years, failed in a mission to sleep with a woman.

Imogen, princess or not, was female. She'd want him. She was weak. She'd give in.

Twenty-four hours? He wouldn't need two.


	10. The Seduction of Imogen Alameda, Part 1

San Diego was much as Jack remembered it from his last visit as a teenager. They still had the side roads for horse-riders, thank god, so his menagerie didn't get trampled by the wailing, monstrous vehicles of all sizes tearing up the highways one lane to the left.

There was Sea World, with the giant billboard displaying Shamu. Beside him was a picture of Keiko, the largest zark in the world, who had his own giant tank and had twice jumped out of it and eaten patrons.

In his all-black cowboy getup, Jack attracted a few stares, some curious, some appreciative, some hostile. But he wasn't the only out-of-towner here, not on a Saturday in the summer, nor was he the most noticeable. He could get around without causing much commentary, as he wasn't a fugitive in these parts. It was the girl he was worried about. She was supposedly famous – a model in addition to royalty.

But her note had said she knew a way to get around unnoticed, and as he didn't have much choice, he took her word for it.

The note had been delivered by mouse. Bless his mice; Castle Santa Clara wasn't the most secure place they'd gotten him into, or out of, and he didn't know what he'd do without them.

Even when they were spotted, as his had been yesterday, by a servant, they were impossible to catch. An ordinary mouse was tough enough. A semi-intelligent mouse, guided by Jack's mental suggestion, could escape an army of screaming servants, no matter how armed they were with brooms.

A whole section of the castle would be fumigated, but Jack's mouse was safe back in his boot, and he'd gotten his note to Imogen – a brief, mysterious one, saying only that he had a message from Leon. His evidence that this wasn't a trap set by the queen: two simple code words, provided by Leon.

_Mili's curse._

Leon had sworn she'd know what it meant, and apparently she had, as she'd quickly placed a note back in the pouch the mouse carried, telling Jack to meet her behind the crapod tank at Sea World, today, at this time.

Well, technically, at one minute ago. Where was this supposed princess? She'd picked a good spot; the boring, smelly crapods attracted nobody. They looked like cancerous growths, and moved as slowly, so the only people in the exhibit were Jack and a tall, black-haired boy in a wife-beater who was engrossed in his iPhone.

Jack fiddled with his hat, feigning interest in the crapods, and the boy played with his phone, and time passed. Maybe the princess was waiting for this boy to leave, so she could make her appearance in safety, but if so, she'd have a long wait. Jack knew the look of a man standing his ground, and if this kid were any more planted, he'd grow roots. He had tattooed hands; his hair was overgelled, and he was slouching. Not a typical Sea World patron. Maybe he'd picked this deserted spot for a drug deal, and was waiting for _Jack_ to leave.

The cowboy became convinced of this, and had just resolved that if it were a game of boredom chicken, he'd could darn well outlast some teenage thug, when the thug, without looking at him, said loudly and clearly,

"Waiting for the three-thirty dolphin show?"

Jack would be damned. He allowed his lips to curl into a smile that was half surprise, half pleasure, one hundred percent respect, and answered, "Not me. Dolphins are for girls. Crapods are for men."

There was, of course, no three-thirty dolphin show, and both the question and his answer were scripted.

The boy tossed his phone in a trash can, slouched over to Jack, clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder, and whispered, "I couldn't believe it was you. Could you be any more conspicuous? But never mind, walk me to the park. Have you seen Leon? Tell me everything!"

Jack did walk the boy – the girl, the _princess_, out of Sea World and down the paths of Balboa Park, so loud and populated on this good-weather weekend, and so spacious, that they could talk on the grass as safely as if they'd been in a sound-proof chamber.

"Holy hell," was the first thing Jack said, when he felt it was safe, "You've got a talent, girl."

Though Leon had had no pictures of Imogen, once Jack reached San Diego he quickly familiarized himself, via magazine covers and video news blurbs, with what exactly the girl he was supposed to seduce looked like. She was ridiculously beautiful, and, in spite of being only twenty, a full-grown woman with a long, lush body. Tall, tan, curved, with acres of reddish hair and small, clean-cut features.

The boy she had transformed herself into resembled Imogen, the princess, only in height. All that hair was tucked away under what had to be a wig. Jack knew, from some experience with disguises and wigs, that it was an expensive one by the realistic hairline, achievable only by hand-weaving through fine, skin-colored mesh. The thick fake eyebrows would have been equally expensive.

The princess had also changed her skin color, not just her face, but her neck and arms as well. From healthy reddish-tan to sallow yellow. Her nose was lengthened by what must be theatrical putty; she'd changed the shape of her eyes by the addition of under-eye shadowing.

And her figure was gone. Must be an industrial-strength ace bandage under that wife beater, to get her so flat, and some kind of padding at her tiny waist to give her the giraffe-neck torso of an overgrown teen boy.

It was an astonishing disguise. He'd have never guessed, and he'd known where to look. This girl was going to be something else once he got to know her.

As he would, within the day.

"Leon didn't warn me you were clever," Jack continued. "My lady, it's an honor to meet you."

Knowing very well how gallant he looked doing it, he removed his hat, and since he couldn't swing it away in a bow to her – that would be pushing their luck, even in an anonymous public place – he kissed the brim while meeting her eyes.

The sparkle he found there matched Leon's. They'd have made a cute couple, if such things existed. In Jack's experience, humans in love never exactly formed couples. Men and women were matter and anti-matter: particles able to exist independently, but put them together, and you got less, not more, than the sum of the parts.

"First," said Imogen, in a voice lowered, but less effectively disguised than her face, "You're a friend of Leon's? You've seen him? He crossed the wastes, he's alive? I'm… wait. I'm so sorry."

The princess squared her shoulders and tried again, visibly remembering her manners.

"Your name," she said. "And your needs. You've had a long journey. If you'll accompany me to the castle, I can make you comfortable, and you'll give me Leon's message then."

"No need for protocol, princess," said Jack, "Though you can take me to the castle, if you want. If it's safe. But I'll put you out of your misery first: Leon's in Nevada, and he sent me to say hi. I came as a favor to a friend, but I think he did _me _the favor, giving me a chance to meet such a beautiful woman."

"A beautiful woman?" Imogen raised her thick, black, manly eyebrows and increased her slouch, laughing.

"I can see right through that makeup, doll."

"And I can see you've spent too much time in the desert."

But she was flattered. It showed in her unconscious body language, the twitches Jack always inspired in women. The brief flutter of lids, the smoothing of her shirt, the instinctive fingers that went to her forehead in an attempt to brush back long hair that she'd forgotten was confined under a wig.

The car, an unmarked sedan, was driven by a small Mexican man with long hair, who, like Imogen, was desperate for news of Leon, but who, unlike Imogen, didn't give a damn about Jack's comfort or the correct order of operations.

"He's safe? Why did he send you, why didn't he come himself? Did you leave him armed, does he have supplies? I've saved up my paychecks this month, haven't spent a cent, not on food or anything. He can have all my money. Anything he needs me to buy? Weapons, batteries, information? I can go anywhere, I can even go back with you, if he needs help…"

"You must be Hector," said Jack, tipping his hat from the backseat. "Leon's fine. Working on getting y'all out of here, but this is phase one. Take us somewhere we know isn't bugged, yeah? And I'll tell you two everything you want to know about your lover-boy."

He purposely included Hector in the lover-boy comment, meaning a gentle tease, but the man nodded with as much, if not more, gratefulness in his expression as Imogen.

"Yeah," said Hector, biting his lower lip upon noticing Jack's sudden silence. "Other than the king and queen, pretty much everybody's in love with Leon around here."

"It's his face," said Imogen, rubbing Hector's tense upper arm. "His smile."

What was Jack going to say? Straight as a bayonet, he was practically in love with the smiling surfer himself, having only known him a couple days.

But the cowboy had a handsome face as well, and he knew Imogen had noticed it.


	11. The Seduction of Imogen Alameda, Part 2

Leon's video message for Imogen was sweet as could be – a little too sweet for Jack's taste. He'd never liked, nor met a woman who, deep in her heart, honestly preferred, lovey-dovey, _you're my whole heart, I think about you every minute, every flower I see makes me think of you_ kind of crap.

Other than the meaningless teenage love poetry, the message was simple enough. _This is Jack, he's my friend, you can trust him. I'm on my way to Carson City; I'll send for you; say hi to Hector for me._

Sad little Hector had perked up at the mention of his name. All but wagged his tail. The sight upset Jack. Here was a friendship headed for disaster. How cruel of Leon to not have ended it sooner. He'd let Hector keep his hopes, but abandoned him, taking advantage of his friend's crush to get him to protect Imogen, whom Hector had to see as a rival. The whole thing stank.

Nice to know Leon wasn't perfect, though. Meant hurting his feelings later would be easier.

Imogen obviously didn't notice any misconduct in Leon. She was buzzing, bouncing, glowing with delight, and after the hologram flickered off, she leapt to her feet and pulled Hector into a squealing, spinning hug. Wasn't hard for Jack to let himself be pulled into it, to let Imogen squeeze his chest and kiss his cheek and generally get drunk and affectionate on the cocktail that was Leon Sands.

"Thank you, Mr. Jack," the girl said, spinning him around a few more times in a happy dance, and tossing him into a chair at a table overburdened with rich food. Most of it was meat, so Jack couldn't eat it, but he didn't mention that; just picked up an apple and watched the princess wriggle with joy.

She'd removed her disguise – cleaned away the sallow makeup and freed her hair, which had fallen board-straight after only a few brush strokes, despite being tightly curled and pinned under the wig for hours. A true beauty, this one. Auburn and tan. Tall and fresh and clean.

"It's really, really impossible for me to thank you enough," she was saying in a chirpy schoolgirl voice, all pretense at queenliness gone. "Anything you want, anything – eat some more, god, you've got to be starving – Hector'll set up a room for you, we'll say you're his guest – your clothes'll be dry cleaned, or we can even get you new ones – and here, I've got money, take some, and I'll give you more for Leon, he must be almost out."

"First thing I'm worried about, princess," said Jack, "Is my animals. Anyplace I can unload them?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" cried Imogen.

Hector was assigned to the project of taking Jack's wagon to a deep corner of the maze garden that covered a quarter-mile of Castle Santa Clara's massive backyard. The place was normally a park, but it had been closed to the public since Imogen's marriage scandal, to help keep paparazzi at bay, and was abandoned enough that the animals could safely get out there and stretch their legs.

Just like that, the princess and the cowboy were alone, and the princess was pushing champagne on him.

Just like that, with three toasts to Leon, he'd gotten three glasses of it down her throat, and she was blushing and beaming.

Just like that, he was seated next to her instead of across from her, leaning in confidentially.

"He's a good man," Jack said. "Saved my life – got me out of an Infinity Loop. I owe him everything. But if I'd known, I'd have come anyway."

"Known what?"

God almighty. This girl was a perfect match for Leon, all wide-eyed innocence, walking right into traps.

"About you," he said. His arm was draped over the top of her chair. Not touching her, but he could bring it over her shoulders any second he chose, and it was hard to notice she hadn't scooted away from him.

"What about me?"

"How you're loyal. Brave. Kind. And what a beautiful woman you are. Crazy he didn't mention it."

"He… didn't?" Imogen straightened, and, a second too late, added a fake laugh to cover the genuine offense in her voice, her face. She was drunk; her reflexes and acting ability were shot.

"Didn't say much about you at all, except the facts. The marriage, that he had a responsibility to talk to you, to get you out of Cali."

"A _responsibility?_" The girl leaned back in her chair, frowning. Jack was pleased to see she raised her champagne glass to her lips again, almost unconsciously. "I hope he's not thinking about it that way. He shouldn't. I'm not anybody's responsibility; as long as I know where he is, I can get to him on my own."

"Sure," said Jack. "You're resourceful. I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. He must know a girl like you can get anything she sets her mind to."

Imogen smiled, but she was only half-listening, her gaze fixed somewhere on the wallpaper.

Seed of doubt. Of hurt. An unexpected, tiny blow to the self-esteem. A little alcohol. A strong shoulder to lean on. Jack would have felt sorry for the girl, so susceptible, so soft-minded, if he hadn't known very well that women had their own set of strengths, which they used mercilessly on honest men like his buddy Leon.

Who he really, really _was_ doing a favor.

By slipping his arm off Imogen's chair and onto her shoulders.

"Honey," he said, "Didn't mean no offense. And he didn't either. Nobody could think a woman like you was a burden."

She hadn't even noticed his touch. Or was pretending not to. Probably the latter. Ladies were plenty observant of men's signals, even while drunk, and they were masters of pretending _not_ to be.

"What _did_ Leon tell you about me?" she asked. "I think about him so much. Been filming messages for him, they're on a hard drive in my room, I'll get them for you… Hope it's not cruel to want him to miss me as much as I miss him."

"How could he not, little lady?"

He pulled her into what could pass for a brotherly half-hug, but could be more, if you squinted. Held it. Let his thumb brush against her, up and down.

She stiffened. Jack released the squeeze, put his boots on the table, kept casual.

Not too fast, or she'd get skittish; with girls who fancied themselves faithful, you had to let _them_ do most of the work.

"But you know how Leon is," he added coolly. "He didn't tell me much about you, but then, he's not a talker, is he?"

Imogen frowned. "He… I've found he usually is. A talker."

Jack coughed. "Must've been hard for you, here alone," he said quickly, pretending to be sorry about the roundabout insult. "They treatin' you right?"

"Oh, yes. I mean, I had to agree to some unreasonable terms to get the ankle monitor off, but it was worth it."

"Unreasonable? What'd they do to you?"

He sat up, leaned in, searched her face, let deep concern shine out of his large eyes. Let her get a good look at his long, straight nose, his sculpted mouth.

Let his eyes flicker to her lips.

Just a second. Nothing, really. Enough to plant the idea.

And when she shook her head, saying, "I'm fine," he dropped back. Even removed his arm from her shoulder.

He still hadn't done anything inappropriate. She'd think she'd imagined it, couldn't accuse him of flirting… but the possibility was now there. He saw goosebumps rise on her collarbone, across her chest, as he snapped the tension, turning back to the food.

Sometimes Jack hated himself for being so good.

"I've had to make appearances with Travis McGowan. Scum of the earth. As a condition of losing my ankle monitor," Imogen clarified. "And they want more from me. He wants more. Every day. They haven't hurt me yet, but someday, it'll come to that."

"Must be hard. And lonely. Leon doesn't complain much about it, but you know, it's worse for women, being separated."

"It has been hard," she conceded. "You'll carry a message back for me? Tomorrow? I'll pay you, of course, more than pay you, just please, make sure he gets it. This can't go on much longer, or they'll try to force me to marry Travis, and I'll have to run before Leon's ready to meet me."

"Darlin'," said Jack. He placed his cup on the table, his boots on the ground, and made her face him, holding her hands. She pretty much had to look into his eyes. "Listen here. No one's gonna force you to do anything. Not while Leon's alive. Not while _I'm _alive. You hear?"

She obviously heard. Her eyes were shining.

"Thank you," she said. "For helping us. For helping _him_. I'm glad he's found a friend like you."

And here it was. He could read her thoughts, sense her feelings, as easily as if she'd been one of his animals, and they'd been connected electronically.

She was drunk, full of love. Thinking of Leon, maybe, but Leon wasn't here, was he? Jack was. And Jack was handsome and a bit scary, all in black, with his cowboy hat and goatee. Facing her. Inches away, holding her hands. Offering to protect her. Staring into her eyes. The tension between them pulled tight, drawing them together, and just like that, his lips were on hers.

Call it weakness, sure, women who cheated always cried about being weak. Being drunk. But they knew what they were doing. They wanted it. Every last –

The champagne bottle shattered against Jack's head.

For a moment, his brain scrambled, pulled ten different directions. There was liquid – not champagne, but blood, blood mixed with glass – in his dermal implants, sparking, warping the signals. He was a mouse, no, six mice, each curled in a different position in his own boot. He was Henrietta, placidly picking berries off a hedge maze. He was the tiger, hungry, staring down at the jackelope and doing a primitive cost-benefit analysis – how much trouble would he get in with Jack for eating his friend, and how good would his friend taste?

Through twenty eyes, then none, then his own, but with double vision, he saw that he had made a tiny mistake.

And that this woman was more like Leon than he'd imagined. Both halves of the couple had now violently laid him on his back, and he was going to have to start paying better attention to who he dropped his guard around.

Blink. Blink. Two blurry Imogens resolved themselves into one, standing over him, shaking, pointing the business end of the broken bottle in his face.

"_Who are you."_ Asked like a true royal. No question mark attached. It was an order to talk.

"Princess," he said. "Don't do anything foolish, now. I couldn't help myself."

"You dare," she said, and the bottle moved closer. "You _dare!_"

Gently, cautiously, Jack brushed the back of his hand against the bottle. He hoped she'd put it aside, and he wouldn't have to try to take it by force.

She stabbed at his hand, and he snatched it back. Raised both arms over his head in "surrender" position.

"Call the guards," he said, "And they'll find that message from Leon. You'll be back in shackles in no time. But listen – I'm not threatening. Just saying, don't escalate this. I went too far. Shouldn't've kissed you. Darlin'. Don't hate me. I meant everything I said. I'm Leon's friend, and yours. Would hurt you for all the-"

"_Leave,"_ she snarled.

Hiss went the door, and now Hector was in the room.

"What the?"

"_Quiet_," snapped Imogen. "Don't call anyone. Don't fire that, it'll bring the whole castle. Jack was just leaving."

Hector came into view, pointing a tiny gun, an acid-plug, at Jack's face.

The cowboy could almost have laughed. His gun was still at his hip, a good old-fashioned six-shooter, and he hadn't lived decades out in the wastes by being a slow draw. Had he thought for a minute that either one of these two had the guts to use their weapons, he could shoot them through the heads before the sight of his hand moving was processed by their brains.

But he didn't. He let them keep their weapons in their wobbly grip while he rose an inch at a time, hands still raised, apologizing the whole time.

"You gotta believe me, Princess," he said at last, once standing. "I shouldn't have done it, but it wasn't meant to hurt nobody. You were right, I've been alone in the desert too long, and here was a beautiful woman, smiling at me… Thought you wanted it."

"Thought I _wanted_ to cheat on my husband?" she said. "A man who trusted you? Thought I would dream of, of even _kissing_ another man? Listen to me, cowboy. I'm the princess of California. I know how to keep my word. If I'd married a bump on a log, there's not a proof of liquor in the world that could make me cheat on it. As it is, I'm married to Leon Sands, the bravest, most honorable, kindest, handsomest human on the planet. To get me in anyone else's bed, _especially yours_, you'd have to kill me. Don't carry any message back to Leon. Don't speak to him again. You liar. You _creep._"

"Now, see here…"

"Quiet."

She tossed him his hat, which he caught, causing Hector to twitch. Jack almost got a face full of acid.

"Princess, one thing before I go," he said. "You recorded vids to send to Leon. I can get them to him. Don't let my mistake hurt him – he'll want to hear from you. You're all he talks about."

"Funny," said Imogen. "Five minutes ago he'd barely mentioned me. You're a liar, Anahuac Jack, and you'd better hope I never find Leon, because if I do, I'll tell him what you tried, and he'll make a necklace for me out of your teeth."

The woman was breathing hard, and Jack, absurdly, found himself more attracted to her than he had been a few minutes ago. Maybe because a few minutes ago, leaning in to kiss her, he'd thought her like the other women he'd known: flaky, vain, fickle.

But Imogen was everything Leon thought she was. A beauty, a trooper, and as faithful as they came.

"I'll show myself out," said Jack. "Don't hate me, your majesty. If you ever think of me again, try to believe, to consider, how truly sorry I am to have upset you."

He bowed low, spun, and hustled out the door. Blinders stared as his boot-clicks echoed down the hall, but he looked neither left nor right, and security didn't get called.

The animals were already loading themselves back in the wagon.


	12. Collecting Proof

Hector didn't know how the cowboy… he'd called himself Jack, but who knew if that was his real name… had located his animals so quickly. They'd been tucked away in a far corner of the maze, and he'd thought the man wouldn't find them without his help.

But when he went looking for the animals, secretly hoping for a one-on-one confrontation with the cowboy who had so upset Imogen, he found they were long gone.

Some of the shrubbery had been chewed on, and there were four round prints of anti-grav pads where the wagon had sat, but no other sign that the wagon had ever been there… until Hector turned around.

And a large, beautiful peacock stepped into view. A mythical creature, a real, live peacock, black and blue and green and gold, just like the pictures in children's books. But it couldn't be real, could it? Had to be some kind of automation…

It had been pecking unenthusiastically at the ground. Now it noticed Hector. Alarmed, it raised its tail. The beautiful fan stretched four feet high, dotted with golden eyes… but not in perfect formation. The peacock had been hurt, or malnourished; some of its tail feathers were bent, some missing; some had half their colored barbs scraped off.

The creature stared at Hector, who stood unmoving, holding his breath, even, until the tail went down. And the bird approached him. Slow steps, but not frightened ones.

The peacock pecked at his shoes and stared up at him. Cocked its head.

It was hungry.

If Hector had been mad at the cowboy before – and, yes, jealous of him, for knowing Leon, getting to travel with him, being trusted by him – now he hated him. What kind of man owned a treasure like this and forgot it? Abandoned it? And how had the bird lost all those feathers? Did the cowboy abuse it for not performing in his trashy traveling show?

He knelt, and the beautiful bird leapt right onto his knee. It was heavier than it looked, and its claws hurt like a mother, but Hector didn't mind; the bird was nuzzling its teardrop-shaped head against his chest.

"Don't worry, gorgeous," said Hector. "Hey, it's okay. We're gonna get you all taken care of. I know just who'll love a peacock for a pet."

He couldn't care for the bird; had no space but a tiny bedroom, and barely enough money to feed himself. But Imogen was a princess; she'd be a wonderful caretaker for this amazing treasure. Far better than what's-his-ass Jack.

The peacock rode on Hector's shoulder, tame as a blinder, back into the castle.

* * *

Every night, Imogen recorded a new vlog for Leon. Childish, maybe, but she took a lot of pleasure in the fantasy that he could watch her messages to him out on the wastes, sitting beside a campfire. He'd intend to watch only a few per night, to save up the pleasure, but would end up watching the whole hours-long pack at once, and would set it to play on a loop, night after night.

The entries weren't usually interesting. Her days were no longer full, except with the threat of Travis hanging over her.

Today she sure had something to tell, though. Jack the cowboy…

She filmed one version with a complete, detailed report of the slimeball's every word and deed, practically crying. Then she deleted it, realizing Leon might be hurt; for all Imogen knew, Leon had been as taken in by Jack's charisma, just as she'd been, and had genuinely trusted the man. She didn't want to appear wounded. Leon would feel guilty for giving the man an excuse to get near her. Would feel obliged to hunt the cowboy down.

Might consider it part of his _responsibility_. Not that, she realized, it was at all clear Leon had ever used the word. The cowboy might have made that up. In fact, he must have. Leon had thrown the world away for Imogen. He loved her. He was waiting for her. Dying to see her.

So she recorded a new message, simply stating that Jack had tried to kiss her – she wasn't going to hide the bare fact of the matter – but laughing it off.

"I decided to send Hector with these messages instead," she said. "He's been wanting to see you anyway, and Jack's too shady for me. Not reliable. When he took off today, he forgot something…"

And she showed the camera her beautiful new peacock, who ate blueberries from her hand and was generally as charming and calm a pet as a princess could hope for. She hadn't decided on a name yet. But it was going to live in the castle, not out in the grounds, and follow her everywhere. She'd keep it the way courtiers kept lapdogs. It would come with her when she ran away to Leon.

Once the vid was filmed and she'd kissed the screen and said goodnight, the bird, apparently taking the word as a command, hopped up onto her bed, curled up at its foot, and went to sleep like a massive, feathered cat.

The princess petted it. She was relieved the magical creature was with her now, and out of the hands of that slimy cowboy.

Though she wasn't willing to admit having done anything wrong, guilt still clung to her memory of that evening. How stupid had she been? Drinking with Jack, a total stranger. An obvious criminal – all in black, with the goatee and the hat and the complete casual indifference to the fact that his presence in the castle was a crime. She ought to have known he couldn't be trusted.

And how naïve had she been? Maybe it _was_ half her fault he'd misread her intentions. She'd let him put his arm around her. Let him touch her half a dozen different ways, let him hold her hands, get his face close to hers.

The memory of his tongue sliding into her mouth made her shiver. She remembered her horror, her instant of fear as she'd pulled back and he'd come with her, his mouth clamped onto hers, his body everywhere. The thought that he might not let her go, the blind search for a weapon, the realization that no one would hear her if she screamed… if he _let_ her scream.

Well. Thank god for the champagne bottle.

Imogen undressed for bed, turned out the lights, and went to sleep with her fingertips stroking the _yemla_ in her bellybutton, thinking of Leon, as always.

He wouldn't blame her for what had happened. He wouldn't. He loved her, and she needed to see him – not in a vid, but in person, and it had to be soon. If he didn't send for her, she was going to run, that was all there was to it.

She'd always been a sound sleeper, and there was alcohol in her system. Her dreams weren't disturbed by the peacock, about midnight, thumping off the bed and clicking its way to the control panel on her door. She didn't even move when the door hissed open and Jack, darker than the shadows, sauntered into the room, one long, silent stride at a time.

* * *

His dermal implants glowed a bit, just enough to light his way through the princess' bedroom. Bedchamber, or bed arena, might be more accurate. The space was enormous, the furniture was enormous; the open, carpeted field in the middle, which Jack hesitated to cross, was as big as the entire room they'd sat in earlier. The room where he'd sat at the end of a twenty-foot table and made his move too soon.

No, not too soon. She'd have never let him make it. Damn her – why did the one honest woman he'd ever met have to be _this _one? One who he'd bet his fortune would be unfaithful?

Henrietta stalked behind him. She'd sat on Imogen's shoulder three times while the princess had allowed a servant access to the room. Three opportunities to observe the necessary code. She'd only needed one; or rather, Jack, looking through the peacock's electronic eye, had only needed one.

He'd never left the castle. His animals, at his command, had packed themselves up. The wagon could be remotely controlled, and it was now floating innocently along Mission Beach, which, at this time of night, was cold and deserted.

Finding a place to hide had been easy. His mice were still in his boot; ducking behind a pillar, he'd simply let two out. The blinder girls in the hallway had panicked, as people always did. One screamed, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU THERE WERE MICE!" while both screeched and ran for traps, or exterminators, whatever Californians used to clean vermin out of their castles. It had only taken Jack a moment to slip into the guest bedroom they'd been cleaning, and to make himself comfortable in an empty wardrobe.

He didn't approach the bed right away. Didn't want to risk waking Imogen. Not yet.

Silently, he moved along the wall, a tiny, night-vision camera in-hand. Every square inch of the space was photographed. Jack was deliberate, unhurried, thorough. It was always like this with him; his nerves were at their most steady while committing crimes, or while onstage.

If Imogen woke, he knew, it would mean death. His or hers. His, if she screamed. Hers, if he was able to strangle her before she opened her mouth.

But that wouldn't happen. Jack had been a thief far longer than he'd been a cowboy. He knew how to move without waking a sleeping woman.

The room was wonderful, in terms of his purposes. Enormous, intricate murals covered the walls. One-of-a-kinds. The furniture was custom, the carpet, unique. With the level of description he'd be able to give, Leon wouldn't be able to doubt Jack had at least seen the inside of the room.

But that wouldn't be enough. One could, presumably, learn what a princess's bedroom looked like by talking to a servant. Or, for all he knew, Castle Santa Clara had been featured on _Cribs_.

No, he needed more.

Drawers were opened. Their contents were photographed, touched, smelled.

A pair of Imogen's silk panties went into Jack's pocket. Clean, unfortunately. He'd have liked to find dirty ones, for the sake of his story, but Imogen had no clothes hamper. Only a chute beside her bed, where, presumably, her clothes were dropped straight into the basement laundry center.

Oh, but here was something useful: A vlog recorder. She'd mentioned recording messages for Leon. He slipped the thin, light disc cartridge inside his shirt, and replaced it in the machine with a blank one. As long as Imogen didn't replay her own messages, she might not ever notice the absence of the disc.

Now was the time. He had to see her sleeping. Get the details of her nightie, a photograph at a compromising angle, maybe even a lock of hair. Something that the credulous Leon would buy as proof of her infidelity.

Step. Step.

Jack still wore his boots, his blacks, his broad-brimmed hat. Approaching the four-poster bed, where a beautiful girl lay unconscious, he was quite aware of what a sinister character he was. How, if Imogen opened her eyes and saw his silhouette above her, she'd be terrified, and rightfully so.

How, while he didn't intend to rape her, this was a violation of her space, her privacy, even her body. He did intend to touch her – her nightclothes, her skin, her hair. Who knew? He might be tempted to do more. Jack didn't know himself, in moments like this. And he'd never been faced with a girl who didn't want him.

He thought about the fact that he could overpower her, if it came down to it.

Crossing the room had taken minutes, and he was there at last, standing over her. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and the glow from his implants lit on the princess' clear skin.

Jack's breath left him.

No.

Impossible.

She slept naked.

Impossible, impossible, the word whirled around his mind. He came too close to losing control, to exclaiming something, and was only saved by the fact that there were no words to express his shock.

He wasn't this lucky. Nobody in the world was. Especially not him – the gods, if they existed, wouldn't so favor a man like him, a man who snuck into girls' bedrooms at night, with all but the worst of intentions.

His camera went up. She was smiling in her sleep, and he snapped picture after picture.

When he'd shot her from every angle, he examined her with his own eyes for a long time. The heavy breasts, the relaxed ovals of her nipples.

On the underside of her left breast: a small mole. Excellent. And two more just above her bikini line.

A navel ring, with a hanging jewel attached. Closer inspection revealed the jewel to be a genuine _yemla_, or else a fantastic imitation.

No, it would be real. Like the Odysseus helmet had been real.

He took in all those details, and really, didn't he have everything he needed now? Shouldn't he go? His own sleaziness was beginning to disturb him. Sweat ran down his spine, and it felt like oil; he swallowed, and his own saliva tasted chalky, rotten, corrupt.

But he didn't leave.

He should really touch her. For authenticity's sake. To see how it felt, to report to Leon the temperature of her skin, its scent, its softness.

Jack imagined himself to still be internally debating the issue, when he realized the decision had been made; his fingers were in her hair. He knew it was a rich auburn in daylight. It appeared in the darkness as a black, watery mass. Smooth, slippery. Too straight to tangle; when he took a ridiculous, uncalled-for risk by combing his fingers through six inches of it, they passed through without resistance, and the sleek strands lay back on the sheets as if they'd never been disturbed.

With a knife, Jack cut himself a lock. Drew it past his nose. Vanilla, her shampoo was vanilla-scented. He pressed the lock into his handkerchief, folded it, put it away.

The thought of hurry was long gone. Time didn't exist for him; there was only himself, and this girl with her quiet breaths, who smiled in her sleep, and couldn't have imagined the danger she was in.

His fingers hovered over her belly. Close enough to feel the warmth she radiated. Her stomach muscles were well-defined, tightly knitted, pulling in her small waist.

God, he wanted to touch her. More than he had even when their lips had been pressed together, and he'd tasted her clean breath. This girl, with her beauty and her honor… but no. He shouldn't. Wouldn't. It would be too stupid.

And yet.

His fingers hovered a long time, then settled, not on that perfect, tempting skin, but on the _yemla._

Really, it was necessary. Physical proof. He had to have it, and that was why his deft, skillful fingers were working away, millimeters from Imogen's tempting skin. Not because he wanted to stay. Not because he hoped, somewhere in the back of his damn fool mind, that he'd screw up. Wake her.

That she'd change her mind, and welcome him.

There. The jewel, which, he realized, was really an earring which Imogen had attached to her navel ring for some reason, was free.

The sucker was so light, he barely felt like he had hold of it –

And he dropped it.

Time came crashing back, roaring past his ears, screaming, _caught, caught, caught_!

Nothing happened. The earring lay on Imogen's belly. She hadn't felt it. Didn't wake.

Henrietta's soft head brushed against Jack's knee.

He'd been so suspended in the moment, he hadn't heard her approach. Now, the silent bubble in which he'd been suspended gently burst; he was aware once more of his surroundings. Of the AC hum, the glowing LEDs, his own breathing, the peacock's clicking toes.

Time to go.

He did pick up the earring, this time without holding his breath. Imogen twitched and shifted, but Jack's heartrate didn't change. If his last mistake hadn't done him in, he must be destined to survive this encounter.

A few more seconds admiring Imogen's long, lush, sleeping form, one more picture snapped, and then he was out of the room, shortly to be out of the castle.

Shortly to be the proud owner of an Odysseus helmet, at the low cost of a white lie and one friendship.


	13. Not Worthy of the Same Uniform

Travis was at her door again. Banging, because that was attractive. And hollering.

"Don't be a bitch. I just want to talk. Why do you have to make everything hard? If you were mature, you'd open the door, and we could talk like grownups. Come on, princess. What are you gonna do, cry in your room forever?"

Unbelievable.

And the last thing Imogen needed, after the morning she'd had. At some point in the night, her _yemla_ had come free of her belly ring, and she'd torn the bed, and then the room, apart trying to find it.

As if that weren't enough, her peacock had disappeared too. She had a vague, silly idea that the peacock had stolen her jewel, but no…

She became certain the peacock had fallen into the laundry chute and died. That was the only exit from her room, aside from the window, which was electronically locked from outside; even Imogen couldn't open it, now that she'd lost her freedom of movement.

"Look," Travis was yelling at her door. "We're supposed to go to the state of the kingdom address tonight. Together. If you don't answer, I'm going to assume you'll be there. No answer means yes, okay? I'll tell the king."

Damn him.

She wasn't going to cooperate. Not anymore. Let them do their worst; she had lost Leon's Joystone, and she wasn't going to let him down any further.

Imogen pressed the code and the door whooshed aside; Travis, who had been leaning on it, practically fell on top of her. He caught himself an inch from her face, and allowed what another girl might have taken for a dashing smile to spread across his too-chiseled face.

The wind from the door blew Imogen's hair back, and Travis' eyes glowed. The princess realized in an instant she should have adjusted her appearance before caving and seeing him. At the moment, she looked her absolute best, in a simple, flowing pullover dress, with her hair brushed out and a clean, bright face. Should have put on something with a high collar, twisted her hair into a bun. Travis couldn't be allowed any encouragement.

"I only opened this door," she said, interrupting him, "So you couldn't take my silence for a yes. I'm not going anywhere as your date, Travis. This needs to stop. I'm a married woman."

"Married," he said with a smirk. He was blocking the doorway now, peering around her room, invading her space with his oily gaze. "Let's talk about that."

"There's nothing to say."

"Disagree. Your husband, let's think about him. Seriously, Gen, let's seriously think about what you mean when you say you're married. To him."

Imogen flounced into a chair at her vanity, and held up a warning finger when he moved to follow her. "Stay right where you are. Talk, or leave, it doesn't make any difference to me, but the answer about tonight is no."

"Leon Sands," continued Travis, still smiling. Negatives didn't register for him, didn't they? "Let's compare him, and everything you like about him, to, say, me."

"To you." Imogen had draped a pullover onto her shoulders, and was applying severe, ugly makeup.

"Now, okay, looks. Hard to tell who's handsomer, that's a matter of preference. But if he's handsome, you've got to admit, I am too. I've been on the GQ cover, babe. And I don't have any tattoos to embarrass you."

"I love his tattoo," said Imogen.

"My teeth are all here."

"Stop, I'm convinced, you've won my heart."

"But forget looks. Be real, Gen. Leon Sands: No money. Zero money dollars. Me: Family fortune. Military pension. An earldom, with a hundred square miles of land, farms, mines. I can buy you anything you want. In fact, here."

He tossed a jewelry box at Imogen; it landed in the center of her makeup, spilling foundation and powder all over the varnished vanity top, and breaking a small mirror. The box opened upon landing, revealing a pair of diamond earrings. The diamonds were massive.

Imogen tossed them back.

"Yeah, you don't care about money now," Travis said, "'Cause you've always had it. A couple days with Boyfriend out in the wastes without a pot to piss in, you'll figure out what money's worth. You'll wish you'd kept these to pawn, so you wouldn't have to support you and hubby on your back."

While cleaning under her makeup table, Imogen found a peacock feather, and stuck it in the tall edge of her mirror. "Go on, your seduction is irresistible."

"What is it about him? That he's brave? Why, because he was in the army, survived a few battles, jumped on a few grenades? That's _the job_, Gen, the same job I've got. Look at me. I'm wearing the same uniform he's got, twice the medals. Difference is, you don't see me waving them around like they give me the right to commit treason."

"No," said Imogen, rising. She was less exposed now, less harassed and surprised. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner made her feel armored. "The difference is, you got those medals as a _reward_ for treason. You think I don't know about you and Bianca? You think the whole castle doesn't know?"

"_I_ don't know," said Travis, staring calmly into her eyes, "what the hell you're talking about. If you've got an accusation to make, you'd better start by getting some proof, bitch."

"No one will admit to what they've seen. They're afraid of Bianca. But I know. I know you, and I know Leon, and he's worth an army of you. His tattoo is smarter than you are; he's got more honor in the holes in his ears than you have in your entire, pathetic, surgically-enhanced, pretty-boy body. You're not worthy of the same uniform. On him it's meaningful, he earned it. On you, it's a joke. Don't compare yourself to him, Travis. You're not good enough for him to spit on."

Travis' air of relaxed indifference was fading. His mouth turned hard; a muscle jumped in his jaw. "I'm an earl. And a colonel."

"If you were king of New York, and there were a hundred thousand of you, I'd toss every one of you off a cliff before I'd be unfaithful to Leon."

"Yeah?" said Travis.

"Yes." Imogen didn't like his tone. Well, liked it even less than usual.

"Then I guess it won't matter if the security video of you kissing a stranger last night makes it into the wrong hands, will it?"

The princess froze.

"Yeah," said Travis. "Additional cameras were installed when you started taking field trips to Sea World. You're royalty, babe. They've got you monitored every second. The ankle bracelet was nothing. You're not getting out of here. You're getting a tracking chip installed tomorrow, because I recommended it. And if you don't show up tonight, on my arm, looking happy to be there, the shots of you getting drunk, putting your hands all over that cowboy, trying to eat his face off – of him sneaking into your room at night – are going to be all over tomorrow morning's news. And if you think Leon H. Christ won't hear about it, wherever he is, don't you worry, princess, I'll find a way to get him word. The world's a small place."

Imogen's mind was reeling so fast, spinning with the knowledge of what she'd done, of how it must have looked, of how a shot could be edited to _not_ show her smashing the bottle against Jack's head, that she didn't notice the comment about Jack sneaking into her room.

"_You're_ not good enough for _me_," Travis said. "You're not even good enough for him, piece of trash that he is. I'd be doing him a favor, letting that video out. But I've got to do my duty. Unlike you, when the king and queen tell me what to do, I don't cry in my room like a little pussy."

Once again, he offered the earrings, though this time he stretched them out in his hand, rather than throwing them at her. Stunned into compliance, Imogen moved to take them – and found herself pinned against a dresser, Travis' large, hard fingers jamming into her neck.

"Not good enough for him to spit on?" he hissed, letting flecks of spit fall on her face. "Not worthy of the same uniform?"

Imogen couldn't breathe. All she could do was keep her dignity – not struggle, not try to scream. That would be useless, and god help her, he'd probably like it. She stared at him, shut her mouth, and prayed to stay conscious, as her need for air grew more desperate.

"You're a whore," he said. The length of his body was pressed against her; he was breathing into her mouth. When she squeezed her eyes closed, he slammed her body into the dresser, right at the corner, bruising her in a dozen places. Letting her feel how strong he was. How completely she was in his power. "_My_ whore, now, and you don't get to tell me what I'm worthy of."

God, no, his tongue was on her cheek, his pelvis was crushing hers…

But he released her. Let her sink to the ground, choking, and crawl away.

"So," he said, adjusting his shirt cuffs. "See you tonight. Seven. Don't be late. Ever again. And wear those earrings."

Minutes later, Imogen was only half-aware of Hector kneeling at her side, pulling her to her feet, pressing water on her. Once she came to her senses, she nearly hugged him, but oh god, how many cameras were hidden in here? How would it look – how could Travis and Bianca make it look?

She had been compromised twice, once with Jack, now with Travis. From the right angle, any recording could look like an affair, rather than an attack.

"Hector," she said, "You have to get me out of here."

He pinched his lips together. "I swore to Leon I wouldn't let them hurt you," he said, "and I'm not going to let him down again."

"They're watching us, Travis knows about-"

"Shhh. I heard. I know. Give me a week, princess. I'll think of something."

He stroked her hair and brought her ice packs for the bruises. Bless him. Without faithful Hector around to trust, to confide in, she didn't know how she'd keep her sanity.


	14. Convincing Leon

The hummingbird, scouting ahead, was the first to see Leon. Through its eye, Jack watched the handsome young man, who was playing pool with a stranger and grinning. Always grinning. Not faking, either. This was a happy man. Irrepressible, really. After Jack broke his heart, he'd be grinning again in hours. Over the girl in a day.

Nothing to worry about.

He saw Leon spot the hummingbird, and damned if the man didn't smile bigger, and if, once Jack himself arrived, Leon didn't throw a huge hug at him.

"Didn't think you'd be pleased to see me, considering my mission," said Jack, fiddling with his rumpled collar.

"Your mission, far as I'm concerned, was to lose a bet. I'll take my Canadian passport, please, and two more for Hector and Imogen."

"But I didn't lose."

Bless Leon's big heart, he didn't argue, or yell, or start a fight, or do anything but give a small shrug. "Figured you'd say that. Even though you're my friend, an Odysseus helmet's a lot to give up. Have a seat, I'll buy you dinner, and you can try to convince me Imogen slept with you."

"Son, I'm Anahuac Jack. It's not a question of trying."

"Just of lying. It's inevitable – I don't even mind you doing your best. Here, have a seat."

The kid sat beside Jack, not across from him, and they both put their feet up on the table. Leon had acquired cowboy boots somewhere, and his facial hair was growing out. He looked more like Jack than ever.

And was determined to have a good time in spite of Jack's claim. Wouldn't even let the subject come up again until drinks, chips, and salsa had arrived, and entrees were ordered. He asked about the journey. No, Jack hadn't run into any more Infinity Loops. Or sandstorms. The animals were fine, except for a scare with the tiger trying to eat the jackelope. Fortunately, the jackelope's antlers were already growing back, and the tiger had been forced to spit his friend out before any damage was done.

"Now," said Leon, with an enormous sigh and a sympathetic look at his friend. "Lie to me."

"I saw her," said Jack. "Talked to her. We watched your vids together, you sappy bastard, that was some teenage garbage. She loved it."

"Poetry, man. You liked her?"

"Hell of a woman. You're a lucky man, to have ever had her. But you know, the prettier they are, the worse it hurts, once the heartbreak comes."

"Break my heart, buddy. Tell me lies. I'm seriously curious to see what you come up with. How you think you can convince me she'd cheat. That _is_ the story, right?"

"It is. Took two hours."

The kid was putting on a great show of complete disbelief, but his zark tattoo wiggled, betraying a hint of a rising heartbeat – the slightest sliver of fear. Only natural.

"Tell me," he said, and he put a hand over Jack's shoulder.

"She was missing you – couldn't lie about that, buddy. We had a drink, three, four, to celebrate you surviving the journey out here. Silver Valley blush champagne, that's what she drinks."

"I'll be damned, Jack, that _is_ what she drinks! Here, have the helmet, what more proof do I need?"

If Leon had been wrong – if Jack had in fact slept with Imogen – the teasing would have been enjoyable. Nothing like building up, then slapping down a punk who was both smug and wrong. Leon, however, was smug and right, and his light, confident tone curled Jack's moustache.

"She's thinking about one handsome man," Jack ruffled Leon's curly hair, "And looking at another. Drinking, feeling good. A little upset, too. Had a long couple weeks in the castle without you. She's feeling weak. Needs comfort. Most natural thing in the world. Beautiful, in fact. I comforted her, and I ain't even sorry."

Leon's zark had calmed down. So far, Jack knew, he hadn't said anything irrefutable.

"She gave me this in the morning," he said, tossing Jack the disk with Imogen's vlog diary (minus, naturally, the final entry regarding Jack and the kiss). "Vids for you. She's still in love with you, course. Wants to run off with you. Don't worry about that. A real woman can love two men at once, you know. Three, four, even. Their hearts are big enough for all of us."

Jack went to sip his beer, and ended up draining the bottle.

Leon pressed the touchpad, and a hologram of Imogen's upper body, small-scale, appeared on the table. Jack watched the kid's eyes light up, and felt sick. Imogen was crying and smiling, talking about her ankle monitor – this video had been recorded the day after his banishment.

"You really did see her," Leon said. "Thank you for this, man." He scrolled through the data files, and added, "A hundred entries?"

"Told you, man, you're all she thinks about."

"Can't wait to watch them. Anything else?"

"I can describe her bedroom."

"Go for it."

Jack did. Pulled out his notebook and read from it the descriptions of Imogen's wide, canopy bed, the pictures on her walls, the brands of makeup he'd seen sitting on her dresser.

Leon's smile was strained, and he said, "Honestly, man, I've only been in there a couple times, and wasn't paying as much attention to the furniture as you, but that sounds right. So you saw her bedroom. Or a picture of it in a magazine, or a vid of it. Even if you'd been there, so what? Where else was she going to take someone she brought illegally into the castle?"

Without a word, Jack tossed Imogen's panties onto the table. That got the attention of their nearby neighbors, who turned, and made themselves into an audience without a hint of apology.

"Now those," said Leon slowly, "those I remember."

He picked up the panties. Unique enough that Jack couldn't have just found them somewhere. Red and lacy, with bows on the sides. Expensive.

"Clean," Leon said after a moment's examination. But his fingers weren't as steady as they'd been earlier, and he was sweating. "So either she put them on exactly long enough for you to take them off, or while you were in her room, you snuck open one of her drawers. BFD."

"Thought you might say that," Jack said. At some point, a waiter had replaced his beer, and he drank again. God, he was as nervous as the kid. This was the part that was going to hurt. No putting it gently.

"You want proof," he said at last. "Something I couldn't have seen or touched without her permission. Something I couldn't have seen, or even known about, without getting in bed with her. Hard to know what something like that would even be."

"You said you'd convince me. It was included in your half of the deal."

"So it was. Let's see, then. If I hadn't seen her naked, would I know she has a mole on her left breast, just under the nipple?"

Leon didn't answer.

Or move.

Beside them, the small audience of miners decided to get involved. One cried, "Touch luck, kiddo," and another, rooting for Leon, said, "That ain't proof of nothing! Coulda got that from a hole in the wall."

"A hole in the wall," Leon echoed absently.

"Then there's the two moles, freckles really, at the top of her thigh."

"Yeah."

"She's waxed."

Leon stood up suddenly, rattling the glasses on the table. Then he sat again, trying to laugh.

"She wouldn't cheat," he said. "She wouldn't."

Poor kid was aging before Jack's eyes. His skin was an ugly gray; his zark tattoo made nervous chewing motions at his ear.

"She smells like vanilla bean," said Jack, and actually saw the veins in Leon's clenched hand rise. All this time, he'd been assuming the kid would keep his word, but now he wondered if he wasn't going to all this trouble to buy himself a broken spine.

"And," said Jack, "If you really want proof… something tangible, something I couldn't have gotten from a drawer, couldn't have gotten without her knowing about it, I can give you not one, not two, but three handy dandy proofs."

Well, Leon wasn't grinning now. And he didn't grin, or laugh, or react, at the first two items the cowboy placed on the table in front of him. First, the lock of Imogen's hair. Second, a glossy photograph of Imogen smiling, and lying naked. Her eyes in the picture were so lightly closed, she didn't look asleep at all. She looked like a stretching, sated girl caught off-guard by a camera, and the angle didn't leave any possible doubts as to wear Jack had been standing when he took it.

Finally, Jack played his last card: Between the tips of two fingers, he held out to Leon the earring he'd taken from Imogen's bellybutton. The purple Joystone hovered between them, catching the light, sending wild, snapping sparks of reflected light over every eye in the place, all of which were fixed on Leon's haggard face.

How long did it hang there? Waiting for a blow to fall – for Leon to laugh, to cave, to leap to his feet, to scream, to tear Jack's balls out through his mouth – Jack imagined he could actually feel the adrenaline coating his veins, pushing itself through him, thick and cold, ready to ooze out his pores.

At last, Leon reacted. He reached out and took the Joystone. Not a word. He held it up, examined it briefly, set it on the table beside the hair and the photograph.

"Kid," said the man who'd been rooting for him – an old, pleasantly grizzled, bearded miner. "Don't worry about it. Guy's a liar. Look at him."

Leon didn't look at Jack. He looked at the Joystone. "He's not lying."

"What, because of an earring?"

"Because she couldn't have lost that earring on accident. He couldn't have stolen it. It wasn't on her ear. And… It meant everything to her. To me. Maybe not to her, looks like, but to me, she knew what it meant, and she couldn't have lost it."

All this, Jack was aware of. He'd watched Imogen's videos, heard the story of the Joystone, and understood the value of the "proof" he'd been lucky enough to snag.

"Well," said the old man, "Hate to suggest it, but maybe Cowboy here took it by force."

"That had occurred to me."

Though the surfer kid was pale and shaken, suddenly wrinkled, no longer handsome, Jack, reflecting on the kid's martial arts skills, thought Leon had never looked bigger or stronger. His shoulder muscles were swelling, pulling at his duster sleeves, and it was clear he was one small push away from turning Jack's face into a Picasso painting.

But he didn't.

He brushed a finger over the picture of Imogen, who lay smiling, contented. In the picture, she wasn't wearing the Joystone.

The bar watched, spellbound, as Leon reached inside his coat.

Jack drew his own weapon, quick as a thought.

"Not necessary," said Leon. He had only been going for his wallet. Now, he threw three bills on the table – three times what the drinks and dinner, which they hadn't yet been served, should have cost – and strode out of the bar so quickly, his coattails flew out, and the batwing doors swung and squeaked behind him.

The barrel of Jack's gun was still pointed into the space Leon had occupied when the blonde man returned, shaking less, face harder. Older. The way anyone else might toss a horseshoe, Leon tossed the Odysseus helmet across the bar, and it looped around Jack's gun, spun dangerously, then hung safe.

Then Leon was out the door again.

For a crazy minute, Jack's muscles cramped and burned. His whole body was consumed with a wild, impossible idea. Go after him. Catch him. Tell him the truth.

Hell, you can still run off with the helmet. He'll be so relieved, he won't chase you.

He's your friend.

But Jack didn't get up. He removed his hat, put the Odysseus helmet on – nothing to worry about, nobody in this bar would recognize it as more than a common orienter – and replaced his hat, then his gun. Talk resumed; Jack finished his second beer.

The only movement was from the old, grizzled man who had called Jack a liar. He left the bar a minute after Leon, and Jack hoped he'd catch him. The poor kid could use a friendly face.


	15. The Vegas Oracle

After throwing a leg over the seat of the Claw and starting it up, then revving it in neutral a few times, Leon realized he had nowhere to go, and shut it down.

For the month he'd been in the wastes, he hadn't had anywhere to go, but it hadn't felt that way, because there was an ultimate goal, if not destination, in mind. Get safe. Get settled. Get a ticket or a ride to Canada, to New York, to Florida, somewhere far enough away that all Bianca's bounty hunters wouldn't be able to find him. Have Imogen join him, either on the way, or once he'd arrived.

Imogen.

God.

He could see her at their parting. She'd been so brave – trying not to show her tears, thinking only of his safety, his comfort. He remembered the way she'd kissed his wounded wrists.

Remembered his fingers brushing her skin as, together, they had placed the Joystone in her navel ring, and leaned on each other, sharing strength.

Then he thought of Jack's fingers tracing the same path. Had he removed the ring himself, or asked her to? How had the conversation gone? How _could_ it have gone, other than, _Leon gave it to me, but screw him; you want it, it's yours, Jack._

Jack. Leon's mind was so full of Imogen, he couldn't begin to process what that man had done to him, but he found, at present, he had no anger directed at the cowboy.

Most of his anger was at himself. For sending Jack in the first place. For trusting Imogen. For throwing his life away. For what? For her? _Her?_

No, Leon's burning, painful fury was reserved for Imogen alone.

How could he fail to believe? The cowboy knew how she smelled, knew what she drank… he had a picture of her naked, had _the Joystone, how could he have gotten it?_

Not by force. In the picture of Imogen smiling, naked, the Joystone was gone already; if Jack had stripped her naked and taken it from her, she'd have been crying.

The nights they'd stayed up talking, wrapped in each other, skin against skin, his mouth on her collarbone, her fingers tangled in his hair. He'd meant every word of his marriage vows. Committing to Imogen hadn't seemed a sacrifice at all, even with the danger involved. He'd known she was the one, couldn't dream of showing interest in, let alone sleeping with, another girl.

But of course that would be the case, wouldn't it? She was special. A princess. A six-foot-tall, radiant, intelligent _actual princess_, with all the money and power California could throw at her. She'd been on the covers of hundreds of magazines. Had men filling in applications for the chance to date her.

It was natural that he, Leon, would be enchanted. What man wouldn't swear undying loyalty to all that, and mean it, risks be damned?

But he'd been a fool to assume Imogen would feel the same way about him.

Leon Sands. Who was he? Some guy. Some piece of trash tossed up on the beach. Handsome enough, but tattooed and pierced, with a broken tooth and an obnoxious surfer's accent. A habit of calling the princess of California "babe."

A man without a penny or a home, who could offer her nothing.

Nothing but a few wild nights, and the pleasure of pissing off her parents.

She was nineteen. Spoiled. A child – how could he have missed it? Leon had been the first man to kiss her. To take her to bed. He'd been exciting and new, and a rebel, and she'd been infatuated. But teenage infatuation faded instantly.

Leon had gone out of sight, and Imogen had found a replacement.

In Anahuac Jack – a dark carbon-copy of Leon. Exactly as valuable in terms of novelty, the parental rebellion factor, excitement, handsomeness. Why _wouldn't_ she have slept with him?

But, oh, god, how he'd trusted her. He hadn't doubted her for a moment, any more than he doubted the earth went around the sun, and the two moons went around the earth.

But he wasn't completely without a brain, and trust had to give way to evidence.

"Son," said a voice behind him. Leon had been aware, in the back of his mind, of the man's approach for some time, and a lucky thing, too; the few times anyone had managed to sneak up on Leon, he'd reacted like a well-trained California Novice First Class, and torn their heads off. That had been in battle, but out here, on the wastes, expecting to be dragged off or assassinated at any moment, Leon was always a little on edge.

The old, bearded man from the bar approached and laid a comforting hand on Leon's shoulder. "Listen here, son, you already lost that piece of metal. Don't let the slimy cowpolk trick your girl outta you. Can't trust a man like that. Man in black, wanders across the desert for a living, you think he don't know how to fool a cityboy like you?"

"His evidence," said Leon, "Was extremely compelling. What would you say, if he had even two of those things – a picture of your wife naked? A pair of her underwear? And that jewel, you don't know what it meant to us."

"I don't, but look here," said the old man. His ruddy cheeks and small, bright eyes made Leon think of Santa Claus, and somewhere deep in his chest, hope stirred again. "Give your lady one more chance. We've got an oracle in this town, you know."

"An oracle? Grampa, you're asking me to believe some gypsy huckster, and _not_ trust my friend?"

"First of all, kid, that slick son of a bitch ain't your friend, if he touched your girl, or says he did. Second, this oracle's the real deal. She saved me once. Get off your ride, come on, you don't got nowhere to be."

This was true, and Leon, weary and compliant, flopped off the Claw and trudged alongside the old man, digging his heels into the gravel with every step.

Oracles were common enough, out here in the wilds. People needed hope, and any charismatic charlatan with a gift for cold-reading could become one, if they had the guts to do it. An easy enough job; guess the future, and if you're wrong, no one remembers, if you're right, people worship you as a prophet.

Sometimes they told the present, too, and that was easy if you knew the locals. Leon wondered, with a smile, if the oracle would be able to claim knowledge of himself, a man without a local reputation, or of Imogen, hundreds of miles away.

"I thought my wife was cheating once," the old man, who had introduced himself as John, was saying. "Fifteen years ago, she gets pregnant after ten years of nothing, I figure for sure the kid can't be mine. I was old even then, and she was young and pretty. Go to the oracle, she says kid's mine, and he'll have my eyes. Not for her, I woulda walked out 'fore the kid was born, but I stayed long enough to see. Sure enough, kid's got my eyes, no mistaking."

Since the old man's eyes were small and brown, not at all distinctive, Leon wasn't confident this tale was worth hearing, but he smiled weakly.

"And we do the blood test, and after all that, kid's mine, and we're a happy family. Give your girl a last chance, son. Just ask. In case."

Though he'd seen the outside of the oracle's shop before, Leon hadn't examined it thoroughly. It was small, one cubby in a strip mall, and the slightly rotten stucco exterior was painted over to look like it was made of red bricks. Through frosted glass, he could just make out the glowing neon outline of a hand with four fingers raised. The thumb crossed the palm, partially obscuring the open eye that sat there.

The door opened like an ordinary door, though instead of triggering a bicycle bell or an electronic "ding dong," it had been rigged to brush against a set of tiny windchimes.

Inside, the shop was messy and full, though Leon couldn't have said exactly what it was full of. There were shelves covered in piles of exotic-looking, richly colored fabrics, and rocks sat on every surface – some gemstones, some plastics, and some large, ordinary pieces of granite that looked more like paperweights than decorations.

"If you could see the future," said Leon to old John, feeling his lips relax into their usual quirk, "Is this where you'd be?"

"I'd be where I wanted to be," said the old man. "Who's to say I wouldn't want to be in Vegas? Bright lights, interesting people. Honest work."

"Just so," said a low female voice. The oracle had stepped into the crowded foyer, smiling. "Hello. Welcome to Apolla's den, Apolla being me. How are you, John? And how's little Hamish?"

"I'll be a… how'd you know that's what we named him? You ain't seen me in fifteen years, girlie!"

"Can't forget a handsome man like you, Mr. Falstaff." And she folded him in her arms.

She looked, to Leon, exactly the way a respectable Vegas oracle ought to. Curly chocolate hair with blonde highlights, brown skin, slanted eyes, large, kind, smiling lips. He couldn't tell her age; she had one of those faces that could have been twenty-five or forty-five, and her clothes were so layered he had no sense of her body size. Underneath the folds and paisley patterns there might have been a thick mother's body or that of a buxom young dancer. Mysterious – calculatedly so.

She smiled at him. "Speaking of handsome. Come on back, darling, I know we're here for you. John doesn't need a fortune teller; he's happy with Hamish and Jane and… oh, there's a little Jane, now, too, isn't there? She's got her mama's voice and her daddy's attitude, doesn't she?"

"I'll be damned if she don't," said John happily. Without asking, he dug his fingers into a bowl of tobacco that sat by the door; a pipe appeared, and he pushed some of the brown leaves into it, and Leon was more convinced than ever that the man was a sort of Santa Claus.

He let the oracle lead him into the back room, full of a vague, but relieving, sense of hope. He knew oracles always told you what you wanted to hear, but maybe this one would be convincing enough that he could think of Imogen with something other than total despair.

The oracle closely observed the young man: His slow gait, melting posture, ruined clothes; the fact that when she patted an empty plate inside the door, he tossed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill on it without so much as hesitating; his size, his obvious strength, his youth.

She'd already known a few facts about him when he came in. His name, of course. John had called him "Leon." She had microphones set up outside the door, where customers liked to stand and tell their friends how skeptical they were about oracles, and list the details of their personal lives they were sure a fake clairvoyant wouldn't be able to guess. He was Californian to the core; the uniform, the hair, the tattoo, the accent, it was all unmistakable. Ex-army, and so young? He had to be in trouble with the law. Banished, or a deserter.

But, no, not a deserter. A man with thirteen ear piercings, a face tattoo, and the muscles of a Greek god was the type of man who liked to display his courage. Some other crime, then.

New in town, or she'd be familiar with him.

Recently drinking, probably in the Bellagio; the scent of the purple peyote they smoked there hung about the young man.

With this information available to her, she began her cold reading.

Young. Depressed. That meant money or love. But he'd overpaid, so love it was. Handsome, far too handsome; the girl couldn't have left him. He must be having doubts.

He'd come with John, who had come to her about a cheating wife (who had, yes, been cheating, but Apolla had gotten lucky; the child had turned out to be Will's anyway).

So. A cheating…

…no ring…

…girlfriend.

She led Leon to a cushioned stool, and he shot her an expression she was too familiar with: the smile of a tired and skeptical man caving into the superstitious wishes of a pushy friend. A man willing to play along, but not prepared to throw himself into the game. Well. She'd made believers out of skeptics before.

"You're worried, Leon," she said. "You think she cheated on you, is that it?"

Leon blinked and grinned. "I expected you'd know, have some way of knowing. John works for you?"

"Nonsense. Oracle, love. I'll prove it. Let's see, what would I know about you that John doesn't?"

The man raised his eyebrows.

"Hmmm…" said Apolla. "First, he doesn't know how much you stand to lose. How beautiful the girl is. How much she means to you."

"Boy," said Leon wryly, "Is that the truth."

"You've lost a lot," Apolla continued. She expertly pulled a match from her turban and lit it, all in one motion, and one by one, lit the randomly placed, mismatched candles around the room. "Lost your home, your financial security, your safety. California lawmen are tenacious, I understand. You're afraid that, since you've left her there, she's given up on you."

"Tell it, sister."

"You think she cheated with someone particular. A friend."

It was usually a friend.

"Hundred percent," said poor Leon, and he dropped his curly head pathetically onto the table in front of him, scattering some tarot cards and knocking over an ashtray. This wasn't real despair; he was being cute, asking to be petted, and Apolla appreciated it. She was more than happy to put a hand on the back of his head, admire the strong neck with its baby-smooth skin and the wispy hairline, and give a comforting little massage.

"You're gonna tell me I'm wrong, right?" Leon asked the table. "It's all in my head?"

Apolla certainly was, and was working out how to phrase the reply so it would sound particularly omniscient – it didn't do to be too vague with these things, people liked details – when a crackle in her ear alerted her that someone was passing by the shop. She heard that crackle hundreds of times a day, and her response was casual and automatic: a flicker of her eyes to the tiny security screen that glowed up in the corner. Just to see a body shape, to note if it was an old friend, a likely customer, a cop, a burglar. Often, she didn't even register what she'd seen in the screen. An automatic flicker of the eyes, and back to work.

But this time, her eyes did the old flicker… then did it again. Again, and this time they stayed.

A tall man in a cowboy hat and black duster was walking past her shop. Not coming in; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he moved aimlessly, without interest in her door. Apolla couldn't see his face.

But even from the back, she'd know that silhouette anywhere.

"Anahuac Jack," she breathed.

Leon's head jolted up from the table. "Okay," he said, and the haggardness in his face had reached his voice. "How'd you know? Tell me, and I'll drop another hundred. Not like I'm saving for anything."

Apolla only half-heard him, and it took a moment for his words to register, because her mind was consumed with shock, confusion, lust. No. None of those things. Anger. _Fury_, that that bastard had the balls to walk back into this town, down her street, after what he'd put her through…

Apolla tried to clear her head, to be reasonable. But her fury found a target in the sweet boy seated on her stool, looking hopefully at her with big blue innocent eyes.

"Sorry, love," she said. "If you think Anahuac Jack got your girl, you're right. He had her. In every position. And he made her scream, and she fell in love with him, and he left her."

The boy's jaw had come unhinged, but Apolla had no mercy. For once, she was sure, she was telling the whole truth, and it needed to be told. "Broke her heart," she continued. "She's forgotten about you. The only man she'll ever love is that worthless cowboy, and she'd sell your skin to get him back. That's what you get for trusting a man with a goatee. Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave, out. Out, or I'll toss you out. Move."

Flushed, flurried, and secretly hoping she'd be quick enough for Anahuac Jack to catch a glimpse of her, she bullied Leon out of her workspace; his long limbs tangled with John's in the foyer, she was shoving them both so fast, and the two men were out on the gravel, choking on their own dust, before they knew who'd put them there.

Jack, who was partway up the street, did turn, and did, for a brief moment, catch Apolla's eye. His expression turned frosty, same as it had the night he'd left her, ten years ago. He lifted one hand to the brim of his hat, gave it a ghost of a tip, then turned his attention to the two men coughing on her doorstep.

She whirled back into her shop.

Anahuac Jack. Well, that was two more hearts he'd broken, but hopefully Apolla had put Leon Sands on his guard against cowboys too handsome for anybody's good.

* * *

"Welp," said John Falstaff, "My mistake." He clapped Leon on the back. "Whaddya say we forget them troubles, kiddo?"

He pulled a small baggie from a pocket. It was full of black peyote, a particularly strong hallucinogen, and he, Jack, and Leon smoked it all night. Leon didn't say a thing.


	16. How Far to Carson City?

Messages from Leon arrived for both Hector and Imogen, and couldn't have been more welcome or needed.

Hector desperately – moreso than was appropriate or mature – wanted to scurry off to his bedroom and watch his alone, but Imogen snapped him up in a hug, plopped her disk on her dresser, and pulled Hector onto the bed next to her, clearly expecting him to watch her video with her.

Fine. As the hologram of Leon's shoulders and head appeared, somewhat thinner than they'd been six weeks ago, and his bright, easy smile shone on the two of them, Hector decided he could bear the wait, as long as he was getting a glimpse of his friend, hearing his voice.

He could pretend that wonderful, sparkling smile was for him.

Except, not so much. Right away, the hologram said, "Hector, if you're in the room, get out. You've got your own message. This one's for Gen, and it's personal. Out." He winked hard, grinning, tattoo wriggling. "Out, out, out. Hurry."

Glowing, and not being very considerate, Imogen paused the vid and shooed Hector away, laughing.

Fine. Leon could make some naked vlog for the princess if he wanted to. Hector had his own vid, and it would be personalized, too.

The disk sat on his desk several minutes before Hector popped it to life. He was both relishing the moment and terrified. It was the same feeling he got, in miniature, every time Leon spoke to him. A wondering gratefulness at being acknowledged; the fear that the communication was practical, not personal; the sting, usually, when the fear was confirmed.

But Leon had made a whole disk for him. Surely there would be something here, some line Hector could latch onto, some phrasing that would let him imagine that Leon valued him. Loved him, if only as a friend.

Click, and a strange fuzzing. Leon's hand, rather than his torso, appeared, waving strangely in the camera's way. There were muffled curse words; wobbling static, the sound of the recorder being dropped, more hand shots. What…?

Finally, the camera was steadied, and Leon's upper half came into view.

Oh. No wonder he'd dropped the recorder. The Leon in Imogen's recording had been fresh and handsome, brimming with health, if a touch on the skinny side.

This Leon was haggard and filthy. Shaking.

His eyes were black, and he dug his fingers harshly through oily, dirt-darkened curls.

This Leon was high. High on black peyote, from the looks of his irises, and the dark, heavy veins swelling at his temples.

He also looked near tears, and when at last he managed to speak, it was in a terrible, grating voice.

"Hector," this strange version of Leon whispered. "My friend. My one. Real. Friend. You've always been there. No matter how I treated… and I know how I've treated you, man. You're gonna know how sorry I am, next time I see you. It hurts, doesn't it, when someone you love treats you like…"

Hector's heart was throbbing, but he hardly knew with what emotion. How long had he waited to hear words like this? But not from a high, haggard Leon, not from a man pointing his eyes side to side like a tweaker, rasping out the wasteland equivalent of a drunken apology with no preamble, on a poor-quality recording. This wasn't going to end well.

"One more favor, Hector. Buddy," Leon was saying. Gasping, really. "You've got to do this for me. One last thing, and you and me, man, we'll be gone. We'll be in Canada. Start a bacon farm. Fly a zamboni. Whatever the hell they do in Canada. No more royalty, no more slavery, no trusting anybody but each other. Hector, you know what's in the way."

No, Hector didn't, unless Leon was referring to his being straight. Ha! Maybe he'd found the cure.

"It's her," the wide-eyed ghost gasped, "_Her._ That slut, that whore, Hector, she's what caused all this, and I hate her, and you do too, don't you lie to me, I know you do, I see it in your eyes every day. You hate her almost as much as I do."

And Hector felt his mind and body part ways. He now watched the video impassively; it was the product of a disordered mind, and had to be analyzed with the detachment of a doctor. His body sat itself down, its strength dissolved by this painful, wretched sight. By the sensation of his own heart being squeezed and pulled in thirty different directions. At the knowledge that Leon, at his weakest, needing help, had made himself pathetic and sat down in front of a camera for the apparent express purpose of manipulating Hector's sensitive soul.

"She's a liar," Leon grated. "A whore, Hector. And I want her. To. To…"

Leon shuddered and fell out of view for a moment. Then his shoulders rose into frame; he was bent over, head in his hands, and Hector noticed his clothing for the first time. He wasn't wearing his army jacket. Only a filthy tank top, ragged and thin. God, where had Leon been?

What could have reduced him to this?

"I want her to hurt like I'm hurting, Hector," Leon said, his enormous, haunted eyes burning into the camera.

"I purposely told her to watch her vid alone because I knew you'd watch this right away, without her. So I could tell you the plan." Pain and desperation shone out of that once-handsome face.

Hector wasn't even surprised at the words that came next.

"I want her dead. Dead, Hector. And I want you to do it for me. I've got it all set up. She'll walk right into your hands. Just do this for me, Hector, get her off this planet, so I can have a little peace, and you and me, man, we'll build a tree fort somewhere. Hang a sign: No chicks allowed. Right?"

Leon spat and cursed, and Hector didn't move as the video played itself out.

A set of instructions for murder.

Delivered by a man high on the worst kind of drugs, but obviously developed while sober.

Hell, Leon had been sober when he filmed Imogen's little distraction video, hadn't he? It was clear to Hector that his friend had only gotten high for this part – the hardest part, the painful part.

He switched off the video.

And Imogen came bouncing into his room, no knock, no request.

* * *

The relief and love inside Imogen glowed hot, filling her, exploding out in a series of too-girly giggles and squeals, but Hector wouldn't mind, she was sure.

The video had been wonderful. Everything she'd been praying for, except that Leon didn't look as healthy as he might have. Well, she'd fix that. When they were together again, she'd get him eating. So what if they had no money? She'd scrape the gravel for edible cactus, if that was what it took.

He'd been there, all of him, talking to her for the first time in weeks, and she realized how imprisoned she'd felt without his presence. It was like she'd been wandering, thirsty, in an Infinity Loop, and it had moved on, and she was free, with water and a map.

"Carson City," she crowed to Hector, who for some reason wasn't smiling. "I've never heard of it. But he said you'd been, and you'd know where to meet him, right?"

"That's right," said Hector. "I was there with him in the war, and we were stationed near a hidden gully." He swallowed. "It was used as a mass grave."

"Oh, don't be grim, Hector, who cares about a few dead ZDT zombies? How far is it? How quick can we get there?"

She spun again, letting her hair swirl around her, imagining she was already in Leon's arms, and they were dancing, reunited at last.

"You're so cute, princess," said Hector. "Most of the time you're as much a queen as Bianca, but you get in love, and you turn into a sweet baby girl with a toy."

What was Imogen going to do, deny it? She bounced and bounced. "Wish I could play my vid for you, Hector, but it got inappropriate, that's why he sent you out. Could I see yours? I want to hear more of his voice."

"_No._"

The tone startled Imogen, and Hector's small brown hand clamping over his vid disk scared her. The hand looked clawed, as he pulled the disk to his chest and tucked it away, out of her sight.

"It's mine," he said apologetically, after an awkward pause. "I don't have too many things that are mine, your highness. Less that Leon gave me. This one's special to me. I don't want to share, okay?"

Poor, poor Hector. The princess could have dropped to her knees and hugged his legs as he sat on the bed, clutching the disk in his pocket like a beggar child protecting a single coin.

His room was barren, completely impersonal. A bed with a navy blanket, a dresser, some socks on the floor. Everything standard issue. What few personalized items he had, Imogen knew he had sold in preparation for their journey. He'd literally given up everything, except his life, for her husband. She was sorry she'd even asked to see Leon's personal message to him. It must mean the world to him, a private word of thanks, of friendly confidence, and it had been wrong to expect him to share.

"How far?" she exploded again. "How far to Carson City? We'll have to ride, I can get us cycles, but he's there now, waiting – god, what I wouldn't give for a fusion-powered jetpack!"

"We could steal one from base," said Hector dryly, "But it'll be safer to ride. I can get you there in, let's see, two days, if you can get me out of the castle."

"Two days? _Two days?_" Imogen found she had dragged the small man down the hall to her room, and was throwing random dresses into compression packs, not bothering to fold them. Folding took time, and time was up! She had to see Leon.

"I can't wait two days, Hector, and anyway, you're wrong. A turbine cycle can go a hundred and fifty miles an hour if you push it – yes, even off-road, for god's sake, I'll wear a helmet – and if we don't sleep, we can be there by sunrise! Carson City! Oh, Hector, it must be beautiful!"

And she spun and spun, and Hector stood looking at her with dead eyes.

"Give me an hour to pack," he said at last. "I'll need a few special supplies."

"Yes!" Imogen squeaked. "Go! Hurry!"

He went.


	17. Tattoos and Tranquilex

The queen had heard of facepalming, but, despite dealing with rampant stupidity and incompetence every day, every _hour_ of her reign, she'd never engaged in the act herself until this moment.

The moment in which Travis McGowan strolled into her bedroom, proudly smiling and shirtless…

Showing off his new zark tattoo. A tattoo identical to Leon's. Giant, tribal, swirling and feisty, so big it covered half his chest, with the top sitting smugly on his cheek, gnashing its inky teeth at his nose.

She could execute him right now. Shoot him, the way she'd shot Brotherman Dougal for defiance. Cymbeline would let her get away with it.

She almost, _almost_ did. It would be so easy. Or... He was in her bedroom. She could cry rape, and he'd be carried off, muzzled, and shot, and she'd never need to see him again, and there would be no question of blame.

But really, he was so god-damned stupid, it would be like shooting a dog for peeing on the rug. The poor retard was actually _proud_ of himself.

"I like it!" he cried triumphantly, beating his fist on his chest twice, then holding it out to her. She let him hang quite a few seconds before giving him the congratulatory bump he needed to keep going.

"Darling," she said, listening to the pounding of blood in her veins and wishing one would pop, putting her out of her misery, "You _actually did it?_"

"The hell do you mean, _actually_? It was your idea!"

Oh, god, what was the point? It was too late. The best laser surgeons in the world couldn't remove a tattoo that size.

"She was saying how she loved his tattoo," said Travis, oblivious to the queen's frozen, horrified expression, examining himself in her giant standing mirror. "So I asked around. Found out the name of the guy who did Leon's tattoo originally. He's still running the shop. And he remembered Leon! He asked if I wanted something similar to what he got, and I said, guy, don't mess with me, don't try to screw me over – I want _exactly_ what he got. Told him if it was any different, I'd have the king take his head off. Ha! You should've seen his face. Damn, look at it, it's just the same. Dude knew better than to make a mistake on me. Even gave me a discount, 'cause I knew you."

"Wonderful," said Bianca, sinking into the covers and wishing an asteroid would enter the room and kill them both. "You're priceless, Trav."

"Thanks, your majesty. Imogen's been cooperating lately. Since the video. And I've been growing my hair out like Leon's. She likes it. This'll help her along, for sure. Should I get Leon's same piercings, too, you think, or would that be too much?"

The zark twisted on his face as if confused; its tail tip wound up to meet its mouth, and it began chewing on itself. Perfect. Even the smartink on his skin was corrupted by Travis' stupidity.

"No, gummy bear," said Bianca. "I think any more might possibly cross the line into too much."

He smiled, dumb and handsome as a well-brushed golden retriever. Bianca had ordered many deaths, tortures, and banishments as queen, but she'd never felt as frustrated, or as guilty, as she did in this moment, seeing the harm she'd caused this idiot.

She let the doofus sleep with her. It was the least she could do.

* * *

Packing for the wastes was relatively easy, because Hector had spent the last month gathering most of the difficult items. Battery chargers, bags of repair nanobots, sunscreens, storm-proof body gloves, dehydrated meals, all of that was boxed and ready to go.

But he needed detoxifyers – medicines to protect himself and Imogen from atmospheric contamination – and those were trickier. You needed a prescription or a court order to get them. Leon had been provided with them for free. Well, not exactly provided. They'd been injected into him in one large, painful dose just before he was set out on the wastes. The procedure on a banishee was not dissimilar to the sterilization of a lethal injection needle. Entirely unnecessary. But part of the show, the procedure, the game they were all playing that banishment wasn't synonymous with execution.

Well, hey, so far it hadn't been. Leon was still alive, or had been a week ago. He was no longer himself, but he was alive. Maybe Hector could find him and bring him back to sanity.

There were times it was good to be small. Hector was able to duck under a desk when a nurse walked by, and then to smash himself into the six-inch recess of a door frame, one that led to the locked castle pharmacy. His skeleton key could get him in, but he'd refrained from using it earlier because it could only be used once. Not that it would stop working; rather, its code would, within hours, be caught by the virus scanners that cycled through all electronic transactions within the grounds. Security video would be looked up and investigated, and Hector would be identified.

That meant, once he used this key, he had only a brief window in which to leave the castle for good. He wasn't a Leon Sands, handsome and popular and loved by Imogen. He wouldn't be banished; no, he'd be put in front of an overeager acid-shooting squad quicker than he could scream _class bias_.

Oh, well. What was he living for, here? He wanted to get to Leon, and if he couldn't, there was no point in wasting away of boredom and loneliness in the castle.

He swiped his card.

The door hissed open.

No alarm sounded, but the countdown had officially begun. Could be two hours or twenty-four; either way, there was no going back.

He gathered bottles quickly, grateful that his masters had seen fit to teach him to read. Phosphate inhibitor. Microwave repellant. Detoxifyers for selenium residue, omega radiation, ZDT, mustard gas. Syringes.

He and Imogen would inject these into each other, one at a time, every few minutes into the beginning of their journey. The injections would be thick and painful, and possibly make them sick, but they were non-negotiable.

He had what he needed, tucked neatly away in rows, taped against his chest, like dynamite on a suicide bomber. Tick tock. Tick tock.

He was out; the pharmacy door slid shut behind him; he'd gone three steps…

And the queen was there, sugary curls bouncing, smiling her enormous smile.

Hector froze in terror.

Her eyes licked him from toe to crown and back down. Could she see the outlines of the liquid tubes under his too-thin shirt? Did she know the plan? Had he walked into a mousetrap like the ignorant, unlucky bastard he was?

"You're Leon Sands' little friend," said the queen. She hadn't stopped smiling, and her hand shot out suddenly, towards his face. Years of training alone kept him from lashing out in self-defense, and it turned out she wasn't striking him. Only petting. Red fingernails scraped like talons across Hector's sweaty hairline.

"Daring," Bianca chirped. "You look terrible. I don't say it to offend. Are you sick?"

"Since the banishment, ma'am, none of us has been at our best," Hector heard himself say. His voice didn't shake, though his heartbeat was hammering through his skull.

"Oh, dear dear dear."

Hector's cheeks were suddenly being pinched; those red-clawed hands were on both sides of his head, and he was being twisted and turned, as this tiny, terrifying woman examined him like she was his mother, he, a toddler with a fever.

"Dear, this won't do at all. A fever, thin skin, sweat everywhere, you are not well, precious. You've come to the pharmacy; do you have a prescription?"

What could he do but shake his head?

"No, of course not," she said. "Well."

The queen's face lit up so hard Hector imagined a cartoon lightbulb over her head, and she smiled like a vampire.

"I have just the thing," she said. For a terrible, gut-wrenching, awkward thirty seconds, she rummaged through a purple, sparkling clutch purse, and the red fingernails emerged clutching a tiny vial full of clear liquid. The vial, though the queen couldn't know it, looked similar to the dozen Hector had just lifted.

"This," said the queen, "Is called Tranquilex. Patent pending, darling, but queens have special privileges, and I have the doctor cook me up a fresh batch whenever I need it. This, sweetheart, will cure all your ills. It's a pain reliever, detoxifyer, sleep aid, antidepressant, and immune booster, all in one. You take it, dearest, the whole dose, and it'll restore you, you understand? It's expensive, now, so I can't give you more – choose your time wisely – but if you have a day you think you just can't go on, I insist you use this. I can't bear bad health, dear. Contagious, you know."

Barely breathing, Hector accepted the vial. The queen closed his fingers around it and kissed his knuckles. "Poor sweetie," she said, "Don't think of this as a favor. Think of it as an apology."

"For Leon's banishment?" Hector barked, flushing.

"No, sweet, and don't mention that again. I meant for Imogen's behavior."

Imogen's behavior? Hector didn't know what she was talking about, what was going on at all, really. He looked left and right, desperate for an excuse to escape.

"She's not very attentive, is she, our princess? Ah well. We endure, because we must."

Her red lips were pressed against Hector's embarrassingly sweaty forehead, and then she was gone, twinkling down the hall.

After remembering how to breathe and walk, and taking a few slow strides to re-start his many frozen body systems, Hector dropped the vial in his pocket, instantly forgot about it, and rushed through the palace.


	18. Escape from Castle Santa Clara

They were running, or Hector was; Imogen was stumbling.

The removal of her tracking chip had gone as smoothly as could have been hoped for, but then, neither of them could have hoped it wouldn't cause a great deal of blood loss and pain.

They hadn't severed any arteries, but Hector digging around in Imogen's wrist with the tip of a kitchen knife had been the antithesis of fun. During the act, it had crossed his mind that he could make Leon's wish come true here and now: Slash the knife hard to one side, put his hand over the princess's mouth, and let her bleed to death.

He hadn't. Hadn't even considered it, just thought it, because he was thinking about Leon, as always.

They'd had to restrain Imogen – tie her arm against the bedpost so she couldn't wrench away at the overwhelming pain. She'd helped him with the knots. A brave girl, the princess, though perhaps she wouldn't have been so brave if she'd had any previous knowledge of pain. She'd held still while he stuffed her mouth with a bandana and used another to secure it in her mouth, a soft but effective gag.

And he'd dug and dug with the knife until the stubborn, grey piece of metal, no bigger than a clipped fingernail, was flicked onto the carpet.

She didn't look brave when he removed the gag and untied her. She slumped to the floor, green, gasping.

"Well," Hector said, trying to make a joke of it, "How do you like the life of a criminal so far?"

Oh, no. She was crying. Trying to hold it in, and not making any noise, thank god, but still.

He bandaged her wrist tightly, dragged her through the upright trap, but after that, she had to walk under her own power. Hector was in charge of the luggage. If Imogen passed out, he could flop her over the pile of boxes on the luggage dolly, but he sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that.

At least they'd had the foresight to put on their disguises _before_ the terrible chip removal. Hector had known Imogen would be in no condition to deal with wigs and makeup once her skin had been split.

So she was dressed up in her boy costume, the short hair, white tank, and dark skin, and Hector was a courtier woman. He hadn't needed a wig, since his hair was already long. Imogen had woven braids through it, added makeup, and put him in a dress. He felt like an asshole, but knew that the most effective disguise was a change of sex. People looking out for the princess would filter out every man in a crowd, and those looking for her male accomplice wouldn't stop to examine a teen girl.

It helped that Imogen was tall, even for a man, and Hector was only five-seven.

They were running, running, and Imogen was gasping, sweating, vomiting, and then they were in the underground garage.

Bianca's parking attendant tossed them a set of keys, said, "4D," and returned to work. He'd been one of their first recruits. Hated the queen violently, and his only problem with their plan was that it hadn't involved assassination.

4D held their escape vehicle, which had supposedly had all tracing devices removed. Hector sighed at the sight of it. The parking attendant had gone too far. He'd gotten them a vehicle that would be recognized on the moon: A flaming red Lincoln Pegasus, the largest luxury vehicle that could still plausibly be called a car, named for the wavy body structure that curved up on each side in arches that almost touched, like wings on a horse. Why not a damn hot air balloon?

After a moment of confusion, Hector realized it was a push-to-start, and they were off. The parking attendant, their accomplice, waved them through the barrier, smiling. A beer sat at his side, and he raised it in a toast behind them.

"To the queen and her generous loan!"

Dumb asshole. He was asking to get caught. Despite being grateful for the help, Hector was relieved to be free of the him, and he pulled out onto I-8, praying no one would notice their absence. An hour or so. That was all he needed. Please.

* * *

Hector didn't have an hour, or even a minute, however, because he'd been monitored by Bianca since he broke into the pharmacy. She stood beside the on-duty security guard, watching the little man on the cameras as he scuttled around, changed into a dress, emerged from Imogen's room beside a tall, black-haired man whom the queen took no time to identify as Imogen in disguise.

Imogen was reeling. Sick or injured. Perhaps she'd already taken the Pasitherol. God, wouldn't that be perfect? For her to die, and have her body be found in the hidden chambers, obviously in a foiled escape attempt, dressed as a man, in the company of a cross-dressing servant? Ha!

Cymbeline would be dealing with the scandal and fallout for years, and Bianca would be the only royal left in the castle without a blood attachment to insanity.

Bianca had wondered for some time about the best way to deliver poison to Imogen, once it became clear the girl had no intention of breaking and marrying Travis. It wouldn't do to be too fast, or to do it herself, but she kept the poison on her, waiting for an opportunity, and when she'd seen sweaty little Hector, it had come to her.

Hector was devoted to Imogen now that Leon was gone. She'd give him the poison, tell him it was calming medicine. Either he'd give it to Imogen and she'd die, with no trace back to the queen but the word of some Mexican slave (and he wouldn't get a word out anyway – he'd be assassinated as he ran through the hallways), or he'd take it himself, and the princess would lose an ally and protector. It would look like suicide. Absolute genius.

Now they were escaping, and if they made it to the wastes in spite of the poison, they'd both be dead soon. Killed on the run, or sucked up by nature. Gone. Out of the way. Lovely.

"Are you sure I shouldn't call it in, your majesty?" asked the nervous security guard again.

"Do it, and you'll spend the rest of your life hanging from a hook in my boudoir."

If Imogen escaped, any potential result would benefit Bianca. Say she died in the wastes. Wonderful. No more princess to deal with.

Say she found Leon and ran off with him. Less good, because there was the danger of heirs coming back to reclaim the kingdom some day, but with such a show of defiance, how could Cymbeline justify _not_ legally disinheriting the princess and her spawn?

Say they were caught. Fine. Imogen would be disgraced, and Bianca would have more power over her. Her movements, her choices, her marriage partner.

So Bianca watched the escape play out. Imogen did _not_ die in the corridors. She was gripping her wrist – must be sick from removing her tracking chip.

Damn them, they were taking the Pegasus. Oh, she'd have her revenge.

The security guard, a butch blinder woman, was twitching. "Please, my queen," she said as the Pegasus pulled out. "I'll lose my job over this."

"That will not happen, sweetness. I'm acting on the king's orders. He wants to see how far his daughter is willing to go to defy him. I'm right here. Don't worry."

Still the blinder's fingers stretched and retracted, edging by millimeters towards the red lockdown button.

The queen sighed and rummaged through her purse. "Here," she said, pulling out a second vial of Pasitherol. "Drink this. Tranquilex. It'll relax you. That was a command from your queen, darling."

With tears in her eyes, the blinder drank it.


	19. The Road to Carson City

"I've asked the king to send me after the princess," said Travis, absently pulling at one of Bianca's curls and watching it spring back into place. They lay in the queen's bed, a pink, puffy, star-shaped monstrosity that had no headboard and was extremely uncomfortable for him.

"What?" Bianca sat upright without bending her legs. Pilates. "Why?"

"Problem?" asked Travis.

The queen pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to be mad, but apparently she changed her mind. "It's just not like you, darling, to take initiative. Don't make any more big decisions without consulting me. But this is wise. It'll make it look like you really care about her."

"I don't care, but I do want to be the one to find her. You know what that bitch said to me? It was a while ago, but I keep thinking about it."

The queen latched one bony hand onto his wrist, and Travis realized he'd not been paying attention, and had accidentally been yanking her hair.

"She said," he continued, "I wasn't worthy to wear the same uniform as Leon. That I wasn't good enough for him to spit on. So I want to be the one to find her."

He moved his grip from Bianca's hair to her bicep, and squeezed as he talked, hard enough to make it exciting. The queen didn't stop him this time.

"I'm going to be wearing my uniform when I find her," he said. "I'm going to wear it when I kill Leon. And it'll be the two of us, me and Imogen, alone on the wastes, and I'm going to toss her over his worthless body and make her tell me how good the uniform looks on me. How I'm a better man than Leon. And if she won't say it… or even if she will… I'm going to wear it while I rape her into the gravel, and kick her sorry ass home. Naked."

"Darling," said Bianca, freeing herself so she could turn and sit in his lap, facing him, her legs wrapped around his hips. "I think that's exactly the sort of lesson the little bitch needs. Maybe cut her tongue out so she can't tell on you, though?"

"By the time I'm done with her, she'll know better than to say a word against me."

The queen smiled. "For once, cutie pie, you know best. Give her hell for me."

* * *

Either way, Bianca thought, it was a good plan. Travis would catch Imogen, and be proud of himself, or he wouldn't, and he would die. She'd be rid of him. Frankly, now that he had that damned tattoo, Bianca was losing interest in him.

* * *

The next morning, Travis got the assignment as requested, with the caveat that the recovery of Imogen must be discrete.

Thank goodness, Cymbeline said, that the only people who knew about it were one stupid parking attendant and one security guard.

One _dead_ security guard. She'd apparently committed suicide after helping the couple escape, probably to avoid punishment for treason.

Travis set off with two of his best men, and it took no time at all to locate the Pegasus: Abandoned at the edge of town, with two sets of heavy cycle tracks leading west. The tracks were quickly lost as the terrain turned from soft ground to rock, but Travis and his team were good. They had bio trackers, mechanical sniffers, that could follow a trail nearly as well as a blood-hound, and they set off into the San Diego foothills, slowly but surely closing the gap between themselves and Princess Imogen.

* * *

Leon had chosen his location well. Carson City. An easy place to hide a body. And an easy place to get to, if you were Hector. He took the route he'd followed with Leon in the army, following the dry bed of what had once been a selenium river. The route wasn't followed by civilians for several reasons: First, it wasn't exactly unbroken; there were several places that even the bikes couldn't handle, and Hector and Imogen had to make long detours around precarious granite formations. Second, because of the selenium poisoning. The detoxifyers were hopefully taking care of that.

They had to be powerful; if they weren't, it was a hell of a waste, because they'd made Imogen incredibly sick. The poor princess was having a terrible journey.

The route was also abandoned because it passed through several poison clouds, a permanent firemass, and a Giant Condor habitat.

The climate problems were something of a blessing to travelers who knew they were being followed. It was harder to make a positive of the condors.

They were truly giant, the size of horses, and ugly as skinned dinosaurs. In the eighth hour of the trip, one decided to take a bite out of Imogen. Only, since it couldn't distinguish between the girl and her vehicle, it ended up with its head spread across the fan belt and its entrails splattered across Imogen's faceguard.

The bird's massive body was lodged in her engine, and her cycle was totaled. She and Hector decided to take a break at that point, and lunched in the shade of a dead cedar tree, watching three more giant Condors fight over the wreckage of their friend.

"We're… we're doing well," said Imogen, turning a ghastly, hopeful smile on Hector.

The princess, in the safety of the tree's shadow, had removed her bloodied helmet. Her wig had come off with it, and now her hair was struggling to come free from its many tight pincurls. About half were undone, and auburn strands straggled and flew around her face like blood splashes. She looked, to Hector, a bit like a Barbie in the middle of having its hair cut by a four-year-old.

Also, her skin was pale and veiny, her lips, white. Circles had already formed under her eyes, and she had twice had to stop to throw up from the effects of the detoxifyers. He could swear she had lost weight already.

But she was being so brave.

"We're about there, huh?" she asked hopefully. She ripped away at her beef jerky, and, in her desperation for food, looked something like the condors across from her.

"Maybe ten hours," Hector said.

"You said six!"

"That was when we had two cycles. We'll move slower with both of us on mine."

"Oh." She deflated. Thought. Squeezed her eyes. Reinflated. "That's okay. It's okay. Still only half a day. Half a day, Hector, and I'll see him again! _We'll_ see him again!"

"You sure you want to keep going, now?" Hector would take her back, if she asked. At least as far as San Diego, where he could be sure of her being safely picked up. "It doesn't get easier from here, princess. Once we find him, it'll still be hard. You're going to have to work for a living. Both of you. You're going to be hungry."

"I can be hungry," Imogen said defensively.

"You've eaten half your rations already, hon. Better slow down." The girl really was a dumpster. Hector had been dismayed, a few hours ago, to find she ate twice as much as he did. Well, she was sicker, more tired, and larger. But still, the food wasn't going to last as long as he'd hoped.

With a weary, sad smile, Imogen put away the rest of the jerky. She shared a look with him: Yes, you're right, I could eat the rest right now. Quit judging.

It was a friendly look. A sharing of quiet embarrassment, humor, determination to do better.

Hector found he liked her better now, in this moment, than he had in their months of acquaintance beforehand. She was dependent on him now, rather than the other way around, which helped. Masters always thought their slaves loved them better for their generosity, failing to notice that every gift, a feather in the master's cap, was a tiny chip in the slave's pride. Imogen was getting a taste of the feeling right now, he was sure.

He also felt great affection for her out of anticipatory pity. God, how was he going to tell her? How?

He could hardly guess what her reaction would be. Sorrow and disappointment and rage at first, certainly, but what then? Would she collapse in the sand, throw herself into one of the mass graves? Some lovers would, and over less worthy men than Leon Sands. Yet somehow Hector didn't think so.

For having gone from the shletered life of a princess to, in one hour, being carved into, sickened, jostled, and frightened… and then, over the next several hours on the cycles, having her life endangered by the weather, suffering heat, stinging sands, bird attacks, hunger, exhaustion, and the constant fear of chase…

She was doing well. Still had that smile. That hopeful glow.

Love, that's what that was. And it was Hector's job to kill it in her.

To kill _her_, if Leon was to have his way.

"Let's move on," he said, and he watched her fight a brief mental war between eagerness to see Leon, and need to sleep.

"I know a place we can rest," he said. "Not far. Two, three hours on a cycle."

Imogen hadn't wanted to sleep before Carson City, but her lips curved ruefully, and she nodded at him with haunted eyes. Yes. She was strong, but not invincible. She could rest.

The last peaceful sleep she'd get for a while, Hector knew.


	20. Don't Hate Me

Within another full twenty-four hours, they were in Carson City. They'd been delayed by Imogen, who had scared Hector badly. She'd had difficulty waking, and after letting her sleep for a full ten hours, though he himself was rested after six, Hector had shaken her and found her lips blue.

He'd panicked. Phosphate poisoning. That had to be it; they were near an open mine, and must have been receiving heavy doses all night. Hector had thought the phosphate inhibitors they'd taken would have been enough to protect them, but poor Imogen, already a wreck, had been vulnerable.

Fortunately, the damage wasn't terrible or permanent, and Hector knew how to treat it. He wrapped the poor girl around himself on the cycle, securing her wrists to his with camping straps, and drove her out of the exposure radius, then stripped her and laid her in broad sunlight.

She was frightened to wake up naked, but otherwise undamaged, and they laughed about it once she'd come to and had breakfast. It wasn't like Hector seeing her naked meant anything, considering.

She had become serious for a moment, though, and said, "That reminds me, I never found the Joystone. That's going to be a painful conversation. He trusted me with it, Hector, it was the symbol of our marriage."

"You could say you lost it on the trip. Better story than 'I woke up and it was gone.'"

"I could," she said. She was busy putting her hair, which she had swept into two long, ropey braids, into a practical, clean updo that wouldn't blow off while she rode. "But we're newlyweds, and I can't stand the thought of beginning our life together on a lie. He'll forgive me. He's kind, Hector – god, I miss his kindness. Other than you, I think he's the only person in my life who has been truly _nice_ to me; never scolded me, never yelled, never even criticized. Hope I never gave him a reason to, but then, some people manage to be jerks without a reason."

Hector nodded and hopped onto the cycle. Imogen rode behind him, leaning heavily on his back. They moved much more slowly with two on one vehicle, and high above them, the giant condors circled lazily, waiting, like the cycle was a limping animal on its way to death.

Hector found himself fantasizing about them attacking. Or about sirens approaching behind the cycle, and California cops declaring himself and Imogen under arrest. That would be better, wouldn't it? Better than getting to Carson City and having Imogen find out…

The poor girl thought she was having a bad day. She didn't know how bad days could get.

Carson City was not what Imogen expected. The name sounded so wholesome, she was expecting some version of Anaheim: a suburban paradise with public swimming pools and large parks. Maybe a casino or two, or some scummy bars on the edge of town – they were in lawless Nevada, after all – but still, a real town where a family could safely raise children.

Instead, the "Welcome to Carson City" sign stood at the edge of a grey, frightening landscape. Gullies dug by vim lava formed a natural barrier, a glowing, zig-zag moat, around a collection of blasted old cottages, what looked like a dead gas station, and a general store. The only sign of life was a mutt limping down the bomb-chewed main street, tail between its legs.

Carson City had been the site of a zombie battle not two years before, Imogen knew, but she had assumed the damage would have been cleaned up by now. Not so.

Bare skeletons lay untouched, sticking half out of the ground like giant thorns. All were headless.

Hector led her to the edge of one particularly large canyon, and she looked down into a river of glowing orange. This had been a mass grave, and on the banks of the lava "river" were bodies that had washed up and escaped disintegration. They had piled up over the weeks-long battle, forming crusty, spiky walls on the river. One skull near the top of these skeleton banks was pointed at Imogen, and she shuddered to see it had three eye sockets and two mouths.

"Leon told me to go to the spot where we beheaded the fusion monster," said Hector. "He knew I couldn't have forgotten. We'd hidden away in a cavern, trying to get a break from the battle long enough to eat and drink. Hadn't realized the monster had the same idea. It pulled itself off the cave wall, and we thought for sure we were dead. It was at least four people and two horses fused together, and I think I saw a few condor parts too. Biggest mix I'd ever seen. Crazy."

He paused, and Imogen watched, worried, while he turned in a complete circle, then faced her again. His hands were shaking, and she sensed he was trying to tell her something important, so she didn't stop his horrible story.

"You know," he said, "Fusion monsters aren't evil."

"Of course I know that," she said.

"They're in pain," Hector continued. "They say the bonding process alone is so painful, it drives anyone crazy. Then, the victims' thoughts are connected, and all the people and animals who are suddenly sharing a body are scared and horrified and hopeless, and they can't help themselves. They just start lashing out. It isn't their fault."

Imogen stared. Hector had seated himself, scratched his elbow, then leapt to his feet, all in two seconds. Was the poisonous waste air starting to affect him?

"I mean," he said, "they've got to be stopped. You can't let them rampage, because they'll kill people. But you shouldn't hate them."

"I don't hate fusion monsters," said Imogen. "But I'm starting to hate this story. Take me to Leon, Hector."

Once again, Hector turned in a circle. What the hell was he looking for? Then he walked, leading her along the edge of the lava gully. Smoke rose lazily beside them, permeating their hair, their clothes, their skin. In minutes, Imogen was coated in ash flakes. Hector, in front of her, began to resemble moving stone, and she knew she must look the same.

"I'd hoped to look my prettiest at this reunion," she said, trying to keep the tone light.

"Don't worry, princess," said Hector. "If Leon's around, he's not going to be pretty, either. Here we are."

How long had Imogen been waiting for those words? _Here we are!_ Months seemed to have passed since they left the castle, though it had only been two and a half days. The worst of her life, full of pain and deprivation and exhaustion, which she had never had the barest taste of before.

She saw that now, and burned with humiliation at the thought of the little things she'd complained of over the years. Malfunctioning air conditioning, the wrong flavor of popsicle. God, the people of California must hate her.

But now she knew, knew how bad it could get, and the only thing that had gotten her through it was the thought of this moment. Of turning a corner, looking behind some tree, peeking into a cave, and seeing that face. That smile, the white teeth – one broken – the curls, the powerful arms that would fold around her, press her into the wide chest, make her safe.

Make her whole.

Leon.

Yet, _here we are_, and it was all wrong. It was her and Hector, in a stone alley with edges scalloped by lava waves, each small ridge razor-sharp. There were shadows and rising smoke columns, and here was a cave, and she could see its back, but there was no sign of Leon. No sign of life. The hopelessness that hung in the air was oppressive, and Imogen had no sense that it was going to blow away.

"Hector," she whispered, "What's wrong?"

He was turning in circles again. His posture reminded her of the dog limping through Carson City, tail between its legs. This man was terrified. So frightened, so upset, his body was trying to pull him away from the situation in every direction at once, and only confusion was keeping him beside her.

The fear was contagious. It slipped over Imogen like oil, and she had to freeze in place and remind herself she was royalty to keep herself from turning and running.

"Leon isn't here," she said. "You're not surprised. You knew he wouldn't be here. What aren't you telling me, Hector?"

Hector had his back to her now; he was leaning over, clutching something, and Imogen knew in her heart it was a weapon. They were alone in a stone alley. He was armed. But she was bigger than he was, and strong, and he was hesitating. She could take him.

"What was in the video Leon sent you?" she said at last. Her voice rang clear, echoing through the gulley. The voice of a queen. "I command you to tell me."

Hector turned. The thing in his hands _wasn't_ a weapon; it was the vid disk Leon had sent him. "Thought you might ask," he said. "Don't hate me. Don't hate me, princess."

He placed the disk on the ground and backed away from her, one slow step at a time, until he was fully inside the cave. The very one where, if he was to be believed, he and Leon had found a fusion monster and put it out of its misery. There, he sank into a squat and hugged his knees. His eyes never left Imogen.

Imogen felt her hand ought to be shaking as she reached for the vid disk, but it wasn't. She pressed play, and staticy waving hands rose in front of her. Eventually Leon's holographic, wasted, ruined face appeared, and she gasped.

And watched.


	21. The Lamb Entreats the Butcher

"Do it, Hector," Leon's fuzzy shape gasped. "For me." His enormous, peyote-blackened eyes were as wide as his demented grin. And the vid ended.

Hector hadn't moved from his squatting position, arms wrapped around himself. His gaze had been set on Imogen's face as the message played itself out.

He'd expected shock, horror, tears. Her brief, hopeful smile at the sight of Leon's face had been wiped right the heck off, and as the message went on and on, her eyebrows had drawn together, pulling a soft, sad V of stress into the middle of her forehead.

But besides that brief movement, Imogen hadn't physically reacted, nor had she spoken. Hector had imagined her protesting, crying out at the video, stuttering, "But, but, but!" or something of that flavor.

No, there had been no words but Leon's. Must be a side effect of Imogen's training to be queen. She hadn't let her emotions surprise her into any undignified reaction.

Not one that could be pinned down, anyway. She had changed during the video, but it was subtle, gradual. The skin beside her eyes and mouth was creased, crepey, where minutes ago it had been smooth and full. Her temples hollowed out; her shoulders drooped; even her hair seemed to lose its fullness, and hung slack and clumpy from her thin, white scalp.

After the vid had stopped, there was silence for nearly a full minute. Smoke rose lazily around them; bits of ash dropped from the sky, settling on Imogen like snowflakes. One left a thin black trail as it dusted its way down her cheek.

"You brought me here to kill me," she said at last, her loud, clear voice breaking on the final two words, and Hector could have melted with shame.

"No, no. Don't think that. No."

The princess smiled, a dry smile that Hector was afraid would crack her old woman's skin. "We're all alone, in a cave beside a vim lava gully. A mass grave. No one has seen you. I could scream and scream and no one would hear. You could roll my body a few feet to the left, and I'd disappear. You could go meet Leon in Vegas."

"I could, but that's not what I'm going to do."

"I know you're carrying an acid plug gun, Hector. Show it to me."

Hector pulled it out.

"You were going to use this. To execute me. Painfully."

"No."

Imogen had been standing straight like the goddess she was. Tall, strong, a perfect female figure of long, curving lines and cloth drifting in the slight breeze. But now, as the shock wore off and reality set in, her knees buckled, and she was suddenly blinking up at Hector from the ground. She'd caught herself on the heel of her hand, which she held to her mouth. It was bleeding and full of small rocks.

Instantly, Hector was behind her, wrapped around her, pressing his chest to her back, her forehead to his chin. He couldn't pull her to her feet; she was too heavy; but he supported her in a sitting position and rocked her forward and back as she sucked at her new wound, still not crying, but breathing hard, on the precipice of losing her mind.

"You know he loves you," Hector said.

"In this moment, my dearest darling," said Imogen, in a perfect, heartbreaking imitation of Bianca at her most bitter, "I know exactly nothing. Five minutes ago, I knew Leon Sands loved me more than his own life. Trusted me more than, well, more than you, even. I knew we were going to grow old together. That he was going to sweep me up in his arms and spin me around and kiss me until I wasn't hungry or tired or in pain…"

Her whole body shuddered. Hector peered down at her, expecting the tears to have come at last, but Imogen's eyes were dry and bright.

"Oh, god, Hector, I've been so cruel to you. And so has he. Is this how you feel, Hector, when you give him all your love and he gives you nothing back? Because if this is how you've felt, I understand. You killing me, going to him for a reward. Confirming I cheated, making up anything, saying… saying I eat babies or I'm in league with the San Franciscan Socialists or make you crawl around in a ball gag every night…"

A laugh jerked itself out of Hector, surprising him. He was the one crying. Damn Leon. If he knew the pain he was causing… but then, he did, didn't he? That was why he'd gotten high before sending out his message.

"I would understand, because I would do anything to stop feeling this pain. What I don't understand, _can't_ understand, is him. Leon. How could he believe it? How could he not trust me? Want me _dead?_"

She inhaled deeply. Pressed against her, Hector felt the air enter her body, and it seemed to him that she was hollow, and he could hear wind rushing through her chest, her stomach, her long bones. She pulled away from him and rose, turning shakily. He recognized the motion; it was the way his own body had reacted a few minutes ago.

"Whore," Imogen said again. "So that's what I am, a whore. Well. Let's review, Leon – is he here? Listening?"

Hector shook his head, but Imogen went on, louder, yelling to the sky.

"Every night for six weeks I've laid awake, thinking of him. Crying over him, terrified he wasn't safe. And dreamed of him during the little sleep I got. Men have been beating down my door, and they weren't all Travis, Hector. Some of them were honorable. Good men. I wouldn't see them, didn't consider for a second even speaking to them, because none of them were Leon. Because he's the only man I've ever even thought of as more than a friend. The only man I've kissed, the only man I've slept with, the only man I've loved. Total faithfulness. That makes me a whore. He says so, it must be true."

She was gaining strength, at least; the energy which Hector's revelation had sucked out of her was restoring itself.

"I wasn't _his_ first, you know," she said. "But me, I'm the whore. The one who could have had anyone, all the money I wanted, could have spread my legs for every cowboy with a goatee in the kingdom of California and _still_ married whomever I wanted… but instead chose a poor boy from the Bay, a soldier with nothing, and gave up my world for him. And I'm a whore. A slut. _I_ deserve to die. Fine. More than fine."

Her long, strong fingers dug into his pocket, and Hector found himself staring at the acid plug. It was a squat, ugly little gun, with a cylinder larger than the grip and a muzzle two inches long and two inches in diameter. The princess pressed it into Hector's palm, then held the wide barrel end to her temple. Pressed against it.

If Hector pulled the trigger, he'd blow a tunnel in her head large enough to stick an arm through.

But he didn't.

He put the gun down, and sighed as she picked it up again, pressed it back into his hand.

"It's what you came here to do," she said.

"I was never going to kill you, princess. Not even for Leon. Hell, the Leon I thought I knew wouldn't ask, but even if he had, you've got to know, I. Would. Never."

The gun went back on the ground, and Hector chastely kissed Imogen's forehead, in the center of the large round impression the mouth of the gun barrel had left on her skin. It was the first time he had ever kissed a woman.

"Then why?" she said. She was speaking more quietly now, but the question had the intensity of a cry of pain. "Why bring us here? Endanger both our lives, and the lives of the people they're going to send after us? Why would you take me to the exact place he told you to bring me, alone, with a gun?"

She scrambled out of his lap, and a third time, recovered the gun. She knelt in front of him and pulled him to his knees, so they faced each other, hands clasped together, the gun between them. Hector had the overwhelming sense that the princess was praying to him.

The gun was facing her again, and this time she pulled it to her chest, so it was ready to punch a steaming hole through her heart. Her hands were steady, but Hector's weren't, and he realized that if this went on much longer, the trigger was going to get pulled accidentally.

"You can have him," Imogen was whispering, her brown eyes glowing faintly with mental instability. "One sacrificial lamb, and he's all yours. I'm on the altar, Hector, I'm ready."

"You're exhausted. We both are. I had nightmares when we slept..."

"Pull the trigger, and sleep easy. You have my blessing."

In this moment, even Hector, who had never thought twice about a woman's looks, found Imogen heartbreakingly beautiful. Her lank, ragged hair appeared fire-red on the background of grey ash, and it framed clear skin, bright eyes and trembling lips. Her bent body was still long and lush, encased in leather.

She was like a wounded elk – frightened and confused, but still, a work of art, with a long, sculpted body and a powerful, pounding heart.

Hector carefully pried the gun from her long white fingers, and this time, he tossed it into the lava canyon. After a few seconds, the acid chamber popped, and he and Imogen listened to the bubbling chemical reaction as the acid met the lava. A puff of white, acrid-smelling smoke floated over the canyon lip, and they watched it in silence.

"I brought you here," said Hector, "Because no matter what, you needed out of the castle. If you'd stayed any longer, they'd have married you off to Travis. Or he'd have raped you, whichever came first."

"Maybe both," said Imogen dully. She was still on her knees, and Hector folded his smaller body over hers, stroking her back as he spoke.

"The whole way here, I've been trying to think what to do. Whether I should bring you to Leon, instead of here, and have you two talk it out. Eventually I decided not to. Was I right?"

"I can't see him," Imogen said. "Ever again. I couldn't trust him."

"That's what I figured. Even if you wanted to ask him what the hell's wrong with him, it's too dangerous. He's been corrupted – by drugs, by pollution, bad company, something, and you can't trust him. So, here's what we do."

He sat her up, brushed her hair behind her ears. "We fake your death. I've got you here, and we have everything we need. Throw a few pieces of your clothes beside the lava, spread some blood, catch some strands of your hair on the rocks. We leave all that, and Leon's video, here. Any of the king's guard who track us here will find that, and assume I killed you. Leon picked the location because it's a great place to hide a body. You just pop them in the lava river.

"For Leon, we take pictures of your body. I take them to him."

"You'll go to Vegas alone?"

"Yes, I think so. It's not far. You should stay here in Carson. Harder for the Californians to track you down here than in Vegas, with the cameras."

Imogen frowned, and Hector knew she was thinking of the rickety cottages and general unwholesomeness of the place.

"It'll be a day or two, tops. Wish I hadn't thrown that gun away to make my point, but anyway, we still have weapons. And you're going to be wearing your boy costume. You look like a big bad teenage boy in that thing – no one's going to mess with you. Especially not if you're a paying customer. They don't get enough of those around here."

"And what will you do, once you've found Leon?" Imogen asked.

"I'll talk to him. Find out what was going through his head. If he was serious – if he meant for me to kill you, if he wasn't out of his mind or talking under gunpoint or something, I'll tell him I did it. Show him the picture of your dead body. Maybe we'll get lucky and even make the news, if the tracking squad isn't far behind us. He'll think you're dead, and I'll leave him and come find you."

Imogen frowned. She touched Hector gently on the forearm, and he reflected with faint amusement that this was a big day of firsts for him. "You mean you aren't going to stay with him, even if he wants you to?"

"Nobody gives me any credit," Hector snapped. "You want me to say it? Yeah, I've got a crush on the guy. Have since I was five. Doesn't make me crazy, doesn't make me helpless, doesn't make me his slave. I'm not anybody's slave. Not anymore."

At last, tears came to Imogen's eyes, but there wasn't time for more sharing.

"And who knows," said Hector. "Maybe he didn't mean it. Was under duress, or… or it was some drug-fueled something that got out of hand, I don't know. Maybe you two can get back together. I doubt it, though."

So did Imogen. She let Hector cut a little of her hair off; let him tear off bits of her clothing and rub them in the blood that still flowed from her badly scraped hand.

"I'm shaking," she confessed, embarrassed. "Wish we were back in Castle Santa Clara right now. I'd take a Lunesta, lie down, forget all this…"

Hector blinked a few times, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny vial. "Forgot about this," he said. "What did she call it? Tranquilex. Apparently it's what the queen uses to relax."

"How did you get it?"

"Long story. Basically she saw me at the pharmacy, all nervous, and knew I didn't have a prescription, so she gave it to me. I think she was trying to buy my favor. Same thing as when she let Leon visit you. Always dropping little gifts so that you'll owe her…"

Imogen took the bottle gratefully, but put it in her pocket. "Better save it for later," she said. "The stress is only going to get worse, and I can't sleep now."

Then she let him lay her down in the ashes, where she did her best to look dead. Hector made a fake headwound by mixing water and ash and blood, and slopping it on her forehead, right at the hairline.

"Wounds from acid plugs aren't red, except at the edges," explained Hector, when Imogen asked if they shouldn't cut her further, to get more blood. "The wound gets cauterized instantly. This looks perfect, or will, from my camera angle."

He pulled out his phone and snapped three photos of Imogen, who lay staring at the falling ash.

"I could lie here forever," she said dully, after he'd put the camera away. "We shouldn't need to be doing this."

"Hopefully we won't need the pictures," said Hector. "Hopefully Leon will have come to his senses; maybe he even changed his mind, but couldn't stop the messages in time."

Time. They were out of it.

Yellow spots glowed on the horizon – a trio of vehicles which were still too small to make out clearly, but which had a telltale grill light formation.

"San Diego cruisers," said Hector. "They're here."

Imogen leapt to her feet, then swayed. "I'm so tired," she said. "Tired of running…"

"Enough. Get on the cycle, princess, we've got to move."

"Maybe we could rest in the cave. Maybe they haven't seen us."

But a siren's scream ripped through the sky, and vertical, opaque dust columns rose behind the cruisers. They'd gunned their engines.

Though they were miles away, Hector knew a cruiser on flat ground, flat like the blasted wastes around Carson City, could do a hundred and fifty miles an hour if the drivers were serious.

"Girl," he said, "Cycle. Now."

He hauled Imogen toward the cycle, and had never resented her height and weight as much as he did in this moment; she was using him for support and weaving like a drunkard. Not now, not now, she couldn't pass out on him right in the moment he needed her strong.

"Listen to me," he said, once he'd gotten her leg over the bike's seat. "You'll go faster with one." He grabbed two compression packs from the side-hold. "Keep heading northwest. I'll find you. Run."

The princess blinked. Hector watched in horror as her eyes actually moved in opposite directions for a brief second, spreading towards her ears. He'd pushed her too far. Should have let her nap before the revelation. Should have fed her better, kept her safer. She was his responsibility now. Had become his in the moment he agreed to help her escape the castle. Which he was beginning to regret, and would regret more if they were captured now.

"Just squeeze the throttle, baby," he said. "Squeeze it and don't look back. I will find you. Run."

"Thank you, Hector," she whispered. "You're too good for us."

"Princess, I could not agree more. Go."

And she screwed on a sober face – with half-closed eyes – straightened her shoulders, and squeezed the throttle. The cycle whipped away, skirting the edges of Carson City, and Hector turned to face the oncoming lights.


	22. Henry's Convenience Store

Civilization. At last.

Well, not really, not _civilization_ the way Imogen would have used the word a week ago. It was a lone, dusty building, a gas station slash convenience store, standing alone like a large rocked dropped out of the sky onto the Utah flats.

Unlike the skeletal buildings of Carson City, which were so neglected as to make her doubt they contained people, this one had definitely seen human life in the last month or so.

She grew to love the building as she approached it. It looked so normal. Simple stucco walls, a flat red roof. The roof had been recently painted or cleaned; if it hadn't, the constant rolling plains-dust would have turned it an invisible beige.

And it had a sign. Simple, straightforward. "Henry's. Gas, Food, Etc. Restrooms in back." The sign, like the roof, was clean and red, visible from miles away. There were three gas pumps covered by a veranda, parking spaces, and stakes and a trough for horses. It was exactly what any weary traveler would pray to see, minus a "Rooms for Rent" label.

On her grueling, terrible journey, Imogen had passed by many pockets of human life, and hadn't yet found one worth entering for help.

Her cycle had given out on the second day of riding without Hector. It hadn't run out of gas; cycles were built to go weeks without a refill, that was their whole point, as wasteland vehicles.

But Imogen had gone off-road to avoid passing through a "town" that was really a collection of wooden hutches. An old woman had been standing in the center of the road, staring at her, obviously hoping to stop her. To sell something? To slow Imogen down long enough for the woman's friends in the hutches to leap out and rob her?

She'd stopped at the edge of the village, staring at the crone from hundreds of yards away, and the crone had smiled horribly, revealing completely empty gums, rotten with gingivitis.

And another woman had come to join her.

Together they had stared… and Imogen had turned the cycle to the right, and driven in a wide circle around the horrible place she now thought of as a witches' nest. She'd almost been back to the road, on the far side, when her cycle sucked up a buffalo skeleton all at once. The thing must have been buried lightly, because it leapt out of the sand like popcorn, drawn to the relatively mild vacuum under the cycle's main engine, and lodged itself in the large rotor.

The cycle reared, let out a single cannon-blast sound, and flipped. Imogen found herself bleeding but alive. The cycle was not so lucky. Its insides were cinders; she would have to walk.

So she walked, carrying three compression packs. After an hour, she opened them, filled one with all the food and water it would hold and exactly one protective emergency tarp, and abandoned the remaining two packs. In her pockets she had only cash – several thousand dollars in twenties – and a knife.

She approached the store like it was an oasis, which, to her, it was. She wasn't out of water yet, but oh, god, just to have a place to sit inside. To be able to buy a map, to eat something that wasn't freeze-dried…

To use a toilet. A sink. She could wash her hands. She could wash her _hair._

She actually planted a kiss on the red door of the smart little convenience store, this haven of practicality and competence in a land of near-total social failure. Her lips left a brown stain on the shiny paint.

The inside of the store was just as wonderful as the outside. Air conditioning. Yes. Rows of metal shelves, not pretty, but neatly organized, everything labeled, priced by bright orange stickers with crisp stamped numbers. What a relief. Imogen had begun to think that outside of California, the only paper product was cardboard, the only writing utensils, half-dead markers.

The labels weren't even misspelled.

Imogen wondered who owned this lone-standing marvel.

There was no cashier, a disappointment. Whoever owned this place was probably an upright person, someone she could ask for help – maybe even confide her situation to. But, miracle of miracles, there was a sign!

"Back at:"

Pointing to a plastic clock with the hands set for 4pm. Imogen had no idea what time it was. The sun was invisible here, hidden by endless, flat, reddish clouds, and anyway she could only use the sun to get the most rudimentary guesses at time.

"Bathroom keys are..." the sign continued, with an arrow. "You can't steal anything, so don't try."

_Can't_ steal anything? What did that mean? Would the food explode if Imogen carried it out the door?

The bathroom keys were on large hoops, pink and blue. Imogen gratefully snatched the pink hoop, turning it brown with dirt almost instantly, and ran around to the back of the shop.

The key worked. So did the toilet. So did the sink. The floor was clean; there was a hook for clothes, a garbage can with a fresh bag, a full soap dispenser, and even a vending machine that would dispense tampons and pads if you had Utah coins, which Imogen didn't.

She stayed in the bathroom a full hour, washing herself in the sink bit by bit, and feeling guiltier and guiltier. She used up all the toilet paper, and a ton of water; she'd have to leave extra money on the counter to make up for it.

After the wash, she examined herself in the mirror. The sallow makeup she'd been using for her male persona was gone, abandoned in the desert with the two heavy compression packs. The little she'd had on her skin at the time was now thoroughly embedded in her clothes. She couldn't put on the false nose, either, without putty, nor the fake eyebrows. Her wig was a tattered mess.

So, the disguise was something of a loss, but even here, at this safe little gas station, she didn't feel comfortable traveling as a woman. Often enough, she'd heard the lands west of Cali referred to as "The Rapey Wastes," and she wasn't brave or foolish enough to test the stereotype.

All this amounted to one sad, but unavoidable, decision:

She was going to have to cut her hair.

Imogen hadn't had a hair cut since the fourth grade, except tiny, irrelevant trims of less than a quarter inch, to keep away split ends. She hadn't even had one of those in over a year; her hair products, the most expensive in the country, kept her long, straight hair well protected from damage.

She ran her fingers down the long auburn strands and shuddered at the thought that she'd never be able to do it again. Yes, hair grew out, but length like this was a ten-year project, and out here, odds were she wouldn't live ten years. Or ten months.

Deep breaths.

She realized the act would have to be done quickly, or she'd lose her nerve. She stomped back to the store and went to the hygiene section. There, she picked out a pair of scissors and, after a moment of pleased surprise at how well-stocked the store was, a tub of hair black. Semipermanent. Nice. The color of her hair was more likely to give her away than even its length.

And, facing the mirror but closing her eyes, she began chopping. The process took longer than she'd imagined. Her hair was thick, the scissors, dull, and she had to work in tiny chunks. By the time she was done, she found herself laughing, rather than crying. She'd expected to look like a cancer patient or a bald meteor crater mutant; instead, she looked like she'd lost a fight with a lawn mower. She'd been aiming for an even half-inch all the way around; no two chunks of hair had come out the same length.

Oh, well. Using her fingers, she worked the hair black through her remaining stubble, then dyed her eyebrows as well. Her shirt would have to go; between the dirt, sweat, makeup, stray hair, and dye, it looked more like a well-used wipe on the floor of a mechanic shop than a garment.

Imogen had put her hair in the garbage can, but thought better of it at the last second. The shop owner was bound to see it and ask questions. So she dumped the contents of the can, as well as her nasty shirt, onto the ground outside the bathroom, and watched as it was all instantly caught in the filthy wind and carried away.

An hour later, Imogen had refilled her packs, drunk three juice bottles, eaten delicious, sugary food, including fresh bananas, and reclothed herself in colorful Utah-themed souvenir garments from the shop's back wall. She felt human again. The haircut, much as she'd dreaded it, had left her feeling cleaner and lighter; every time she turned her head, it moved more quickly than she expected it to, and left her with a sensation of giddy drunkenness.

It reminded her of the champagne and Anahuac Jack. Damn him. Sweet as Leon had been, it would have taken a massive corrupting influence to turn him into a murderer, but Imogen had no doubt the slick, goateed cowboy was up for the job.

The reddish sky was fading. That meant it was long past four o'clock by now. Six, seven, maybe, and the store owner hadn't returned. Imogen was both disappointed and nervous. For so well-maintained a place to be abandoned – for its owner, a responsible person, to be late – right as she arrived, made her think it must be somehow her fault. Perhaps the California bounty hunters had come looking for her here and killed the owner. Perhaps the owner was hiding in the ceiling, waiting for her to leave, afraid that interacting with her might bring down some kind of legal consequences.

Imogen wanted to stay all night in the wonderful little store, but knew she had already remained too long. It would be a mild night, and she was refreshed enough to not dread more walking. She could make it a few miles out, put on her tarp and sleep, and maybe in the morning she could return for a few minutes, one more time, to get a fresh fruit breakfast and look for just a little non-hostile human interaction.

She hadn't bothered checking the price tags as she collected supplies, and she had little sense of what ordinary items cost, so estimating was difficult. Eventually, she placed three hundred dollars on the counter, in a neat stack secured by a paperweight made of a giant scorpion in amber. She knew, distantly, that it was probably too much. Hector had chided her for overpaying at every step of their journey together.

"One thing commoners got that you don't," he'd said, "Is they know how much money's worth. You never been without it, girl, and once you run out, you're gonna learn quick to never give away more than you got to."

Well, she hadn't been without it yet. And she loved the shop without a name, and its invisible owners, who had given her exactly what she needed: rest, provisions, privacy. She'd been near frantic with exhaustion, practically ready to collapse and let the hunters take her back to California and an arranged marriage; now, refreshed and recharged, she felt ready to cross three more states.

She was out the door, humming, wondering which direction she should head toward to make camp –

And an elbow clamped around her neck.

"Where ya goin' there, hot stuff?"

The voice, to Imogen's surprise, was female. Low and throaty. Another arm clasped around her, strong as an iron band, but the woman, whoever she was, had Imogen at an awkward angle. Her huge, tight belly was pressed into Imogen's back, and Imogen had her second shock in as many seconds:

The person attacking her was extremely pregnant.

She didn't have time to think about it, however – not that she could have even commented, as her windpipe was being held firmly shut – because a second person stepped into view.

He must be the shop owner; he wore a clean white T-shirt, red custodial apron, jeans, and work boots. A small man, not much older than Imogen. One of his legs was crooked, bent inwards at the knee. He had short black hair and small, unmemorable features.

In his hands was an enormous double-barreled rifle, one of the nasty kind known as "spit-shiners" for their ability to polish a head into a skull with one shot. It was pointed between Imogen's eyes.

"Howdy," said the man. "No, no, don't struggle, ain't no point, and I'm not gonna shoot you. Yet. El, let him breathe."

The elbow released a fraction of an inch, and Imogen sucked air.

The man waited patiently for her breathing to normalize before speaking again.

"Name's Henry," he said. "Yours?"

Oh god, Imogen had picked a boy name a while ago, but couldn't remember it, and her brain had grit in its gears. A name, a name, what the hell was a guy's name?

A dust devil blew lazily in the distance, and, hating herself, Imogen spit out the word, "Dusty." At least she remembered to lower her voice.

"Dusty? Good name. Dusty, I am the owner of this establishment. Got a mother and wife to support, and a kid on the way. So I can't be putting up with shoplifters, understand?"

"I wasn't-!" Imogen began, but that elbow tightened again, and Henry shook his head.

"My time to talk. Come here, kid, I wanna show you something. Now, Elena's gonna let you breathe, but I can't have you interrupting. My establishment, my rules, got it? You just keep your mouth shut, and I won't have to blow it down your throat, get me? Nod if you do."

Boy, did Imogen ever nod.

Henry gave a sharp nod, and the hold of, what was it?, _Elena_ loosened.

Imogen found herself dragged back behind the store. Near the restrooms she had noticed a small stake in the ground, about six inches in diameter and four feet high, with nails sticking out, but hadn't thought anything of it. Now, she found herself seated next to it, staring up at her captors.

Elena, the pregnant woman, was now in view, and frankly, she was more frightening than Henry and his gun. She, too, wore the store uniform. She was dark-skinned, with a ponytail of black curls so thick it was more like an extra leg sticking out of the back of her head, and she wore contact lenses that turned her irises a very fake, disturbing orange. Her limbs were thick with muscles, her large, hard features were set in a scowl, and her swollen belly jutted out in such a threatening way that Imogen feared it held a cannonball, rather than a baby.

"He's cute," she said in her throaty voice. She must be a smoker; the voice belonged to an old woman, and this person couldn't be past her mid-twenties.

"Hear that?" said Henry. "You're cute, Dusty. Lucky bastard, maybe she'll go easy on you. I won't, though. You know what that is?"

He indicated the spiky stake, and Imogen, not forgetting for a second that she wasn't supposed to talk, smashed her lips together and shook her head.

"That there's a Mormon cross. Ever heard of a Utah crucifixion?"

Holy crap.

Vigorous head shake.

"The Mormons are thirty-one flavors of crazy – you're lucky they haven't eaten you yet, if you're wandering around Utah alone – and they got a mean, _mean_ way of executing people. In a Utah crucifixion, what they do is, they get one of these. Doesn't have to be freestanding; they'll use a house wall or a cactus if they got nothing else – but anyway, they take something secure in the dirt, and they nail your filthy thieving hands to it. You wanna be nailed to this cross?"

Oh god, why had Imogen stayed so long? How could she have dreamed of wanting to interact with people? Hadn't she learned by now that humans were horrible – not to be trusted under any circumstances?

All she could do was shake her head.

"Doesn't have to be just your hands," Henry continued, shifting the heavy gun into a more comfortable position. "You struggle, they'll nail any moving part down. Feet. Tongue. Don't matter. But that's not the crazy part."

He knelt, or almost did; his knees didn't touch the dry earth, and Imogen realized he didn't want to get his jeans dirty. This was one classy backwoods murderer.

"Here's what they do, see. The whole town gets together. Not so much a town, they're more of a tribe, and even then, they only get together for wars and executions. But they smell the blood, anyway, and they come and watch. For the first couple hours, they watch and wait. The person on the cross gets good and thirsty. The pain gets to them. Sometimes infection sets in, they get a fever, they get in really bad shape. Begging shape, you know. And after enough time has passed, the leader makes a sign, and then the tribe moves in. And they can do anything they want to that filthy thief. _Anything_… minus one. Just one rule, to keep it real. Nobody is allowed _to help_ the thief. Get it? No putting him out of his misery, not on purpose. No cutting him down. You can cut things _off_ him, sure. You know how the Mormons love collecting fingerbones for their necklaces. Ears for their dogs. Blood for their soup. But that usually don't come till the end. They like their rape, those crazy bastards, and usually, that's what gets you in the end. Rape and infection and thirst."

Imogen's blood had turned to acid. It was trying to eat its way out of her body. She'd never felt anything close to this kind of fear; it was so out of her sphere of experience, it was like being told she was about to be shot to the moon. She couldn't really conceive what it would be like, only that it would be horrible enough that a bullet to the head was the preferable option.

"Now me," said Henry, "I got a wife, like I said, and I don't like little boys, so you don't gotta worry about rape unless we get some more customers. But kid, I got a use for bones and blood and meat. And I got a use for scaring away any future cocksuckers like yourself, who want to rob me of my livelihood. So you think about that. You think good and hard. I'm gonna let you speak, and what you say gets you one of three outcomes.

"First, you piss me off more than I already am. You try to justify taking food out of my kid's mouth to put it in yours. Do it. And I swear to god I'll nail you to that fucking stick and leave you here to pray for the wolves to come tear you apart so you don't got to die of thirst.

"Second, you apologize, and you make me believe how sorry you are, and I blow your cute little sticky-fingered head off.

"Third, you give me a good damn reason why I shouldn't do either of those things. Wish you luck, kid, but I will be very surprised. I give this speech five, six times a year, and so far there's only two people who got option number three. And they were pretty girls, who I already felt sorry for. Don't feel sorry for you. Big healthy boy. Could have a job if you wanted one, honest work. But I'm talking too much. Your turn. Go."

Christ.

But compared to the threat of the Utah crucifixion, this was familiar territory. Imogen had been a de facto diplomat from the cradle, and she knew when to reason, when to beg, and when to be straightforward. How to not waste words, when results depended on a point being made _now_, before a trigger was pulled.

"Beside your cash register, you'll find three hundred California dollars," she said. "Under the scorpion paperweight. I'm not a thief. You weren't here. I didn't know what else to do. Please don't kill me."

Henry calmly pulled a walkie-talkie from the back of his waistband and spoke into it: "Ma, could you do a quick check for me? Looking for a stack of money on the counter by the cash register."

He smiled at Imogen, not a nice smile. The gun hadn't moved from its position, and he could still blow her head off with a twitch.

The princess jumped out of her skin at the jarring, noisy return crackle on the walkie-talkie. She couldn't understand what was said at all. There might have been a woman's voice in all that noise somewhere, but it was only the lining on a cloud of electric screams and pops.

A terrible thought occurred to Imogen. What if whoever he was talking to found the money, put it in their pocket, and lied about being able to find it?

No sooner had the thought come, but the gun shifted, and Imogen thought it was all over; she closed her eyes. _At least they're not going to crucify me._

Then Elena said, "Get up, kid, what's wrong with you?"

And Imogen opened her eyes to find Henry walking away. The giant gun no longer blocked her field of vision; there was only Elena with her swollen baby belly, looming like a sinister fertility goddess.

"Three hundred dollars," the woman said, and there wasn't as much gravel in her voice. "More where that came from?"

"Um… no, no, that was all my money," Imogen managed to stutter.

Elena got through two serious seconds before a gut-busting laugh exploded out of her. "Dusty, god bless you, you're cuter when you lie. Come on back inside. Spend more money. In fact, why don't you have dinner with us? See if we can't put some meat on those skinny bones."

And just like that, Imogen's world turned around again. As if in a dream, she followed the two short, solid figures, wondering how much longer she could stand having her luck thrash from wonderful to terrible and back again before she fell apart entirely.


	23. Hector Confronts Leon

A pretty, busty girl with dark curly hair sat perched on Leon's knee, doing her darndest to seduce him. And he was trying to be seduced. He'd been drinking, and the girl, who was the best catch in the bar, despite having twelve fingers, had been letting him buy her Long Islands for the last hour.

His plan, if there was a plan, was to take this girl to bed, and prove to himself he could forget about Imogen. Replace her. She wasn't anything special; sweet, lying faces attached to female bodies made up a significant percentage of the American population.

But the girl on his lap was leaning in for a kiss, and Leon, though he grinned politely at the compliment, found himself turning away. The girl's cleavage, plump and creamy, was inches from his face, and one pert butt cheek was in his hand, yet he found he'd never been less turned on in his life.

"What's wrong, sugar?" asked the girl.

Leon felt sorry for her. She was young – too young for him to be playing games with.

"Just tired, sweetheart. Maybe too tired. But you know what, my friend might be interested."

Leon gestured with his chin towards the craps game, where Anahuac Jack lounged, his long body spread over two chairs, his boots on the cheap plastic table border.

"He's handsome," the girl said, "But not as much as you."

She cuddled up under his chin, and he wrapped an arm around her. They wouldn't sleep together tonight; he wasn't capable; but he appreciated the warm body and the hug.

Imogen hadn't been a big hugger. She'd been too dignified for public displays, though alone, she'd been affectionate enough. Resentment tugged at him, and a montage of all the moments he and Imogen _could_ have shared, if she hadn't been a snob, if she had ever truly loved him, played through his mind.

Drunk and deep in thought, he lost track of time, and was surprised when he blinked and found the bar mostly empty. The girl was out of his lap, nowhere in sight, and her round, rosy-cheeked face was replaced with a thin, sad, brown one.

Hector sat across from him, watching him patiently.

Leon let out a noise he hadn't known he'd been holding in, and seconds later, he had tackled his dear, dear friend to the ground, laughing, and full of his old, familiar joy for the first time in ages.

"Dude," he said, "DUDE! You know how much I've missed you? God, it's been forever, thought I wasn't going to see you again!"

"I thought so too," said Hector. His voice was level and stern, but his body betrayed him; once he was back on his feet, he clasped Leon's forearms in a grip that would have been manly if it hadn't lasted too long, and turned into a desperate squeeze.

Hector swallowed hard. "Missed you."

"Yeah," said Leon. "Yeah. How's… I mean, not that I give a single flying fornication, but just curious, since she's the reason I'm stuck out here, how's the princess?"

Hector's stern look returned. He returned to his seat and motioned a waiter over to order a drink.

"You got no right to ask that," he said. "After sending those messages."

Leon snorted. "Yeah, because she cares so much. You seen these?" He went to the counter and purchased two magazines, then flopped them down in front of Hector. Hector's drink had arrived, and Leon stared at it until Hector passed it his way, and pulled the magazines toward himself.

The pictures weren't high-res, but they got the story across. The first cover story featured a security cam shot of Anahuac Jack with his tongue in Imogen's mouth. The shot was taken, Hector knew, from the instant before Imogen had recovered from her shock and smashed the cowboy's head. "Imogen's New Beau!" "Princess seen smooching mysterious stranger – what does fiancé Travis think?"

The second mag featured Imogen hand-in-hand with Travis McGowan, smiling wide and waving at courtiers.

"SHE SAID YES!" cried this headline. Beneath it: "'I don't care about her past,' says will-be hubby McGowan. 'I'm her future.'"

"Don't believe everything you read," said Hector dryly.

"How about, don't tell me what to believe. You of all people, Hector. You're the one who warned me not to trust her. Back in the day, huh, that was a while ago, wasn't it? When we first met. Should have listened. How is she? She happy with Travis? Or did she say yes to get out of trouble? What, is she pregnant? How many others have there been?"

Hector's cold, stoic expression was infuriating to Leon. He'd been so eager for a reunion with his friend largely because he'd expected sympathy. They could trash-talk Imogen together, the way Hector had always wanted to, before the marriage. Where did this guy get off, suddenly judging Leon for hating her, when he'd been her worst enemy for months?

"You shouldn't have sent those messages," said Hector again. "I need to know, Leon. Why did you do it?"

Hunching and scowling, Leon snapped back, "What, you want me to feel bad? She hurt me, Hec. I got drunk and high and said what I felt. In that moment, I wanted her dead. Did she find out? Did you show her the vid I sent you?"

No answer.

"Hope you did," Leon went on. "Hope she cried. Hope she knew, for a second, what it's like to have somebody who loves you betray you."

"And what if I'd taken it seriously?" asked Hector. He wasn't blinking, and hadn't touched his drink. Leon was suddenly hot all over. "Answer me, Leon. What if I'd watched her screw all these people you think she screwed – "

"I KNOW she did, Hector. I've got proof."

"Really."

"Yes!"

"And I'd been jealous of her and hated her for months, as you said, and I took you at your word? Brought her to Carson City and cut her throat and let the vim lava have her? Would you be proud of yourself then?"

Leon's lips thinned. His friend, in the dim, yellow light of the hanging faux-antique Applebees lamp, no longer looked like the small, puppyish friend he'd so been missing. This Hector was another of Cymbeline's cohorts. Judgmental. Unfaithful as Imogen, as Bianca herself, even.

"But you didn't, did you, Hector?" Leon said, infusing his voice with contempt. "I know you. I knew you wouldn't. You've never had the courage to do what you wanted to do. That's why you keep chasing me around, but never tell me what you want. You're a coward. And you're being cowardly now, judging me, when you've never been in my position. You'll never _be_ in my position. I walked away from a job I loved, from security, from happiness and safety, for a girl I trusted, and she spit in my face. She's out there letting the paps take her picture, holding another man's hand, kissing a third."

"There's a picture inside this magazine," Hector noted, "of her hugging _me_. Says we're lovers. Do you think that's true?"

Leon squeezed his glass. He was sweating, and felt like this was his terrible conversation with Anahuac Jack all over again. He'd been so happy at its beginning, and was being led down a path he didn't want to follow.

"No, Hec, because you don't like girls. That doesn't mean she's honest. And don't you tell me she is. Don't lie to me. I don't want to hear it. You know what, Hector, I'm glad I sent those vids. Glad I got to say what I think. I hope you played yours for her. Hope she got to hear me asking you to kill her. Serve her right. She's a whore, and if she was dead in a ditch, I'd use her as a footbridge, that's how sorry I am for what I said."

In Leon's peripheral vision, Jack had stiffened and turned an ear, blatantly eavesdropping. Good thing Hector hadn't seen him; the smaller man might challenge the cowboy to something, and they'd end up paying for Applebee's broken windows, as well as searching for a doctor willing to remove bullets from Hector's ass in the middle of the night.

Leon hated the cold silence hanging between him and Hector. The guy was staring at him as if he'd never seen him before; as if they weren't lifelong friends, but a police officer staring down a skuzzy pusher, and trying to decide if it were worth the trouble of arresting him and letting him touch the upholstery in the back of the cruiser.

At last, Hector whispered, every word sharp and hard as ice, "I followed your instructions, Leon."

Leon wasn't often aware of his tattoo, but once in a while, in moments of alarm like this one, it swam across his eyes, chased by adrenaline, and his vision flashed blue and gold. "Which instructions, Hector?"

As if he didn't know.

"You're right, Leon, I've been in love with you for fifteen years. You finally tell me you want me by your side, and all I had to do was get rid of Imogen, you think I wouldn't do that? You think I wouldn't have done anything for you?"

The glass slid across the table; Leon's sweaty grip had gotten too tight.

"I took her to Carson City," Hector went on, brown eyes boring into Leon, his words firing like bullets. "Wasn't sure I could do it, but I was determined to try. For you. When I pulled the gun, I hesitated, and she started crying, asked me why, begged me to tell her what she'd done to me. So I played her your vid. You'd probably have been glad to see her face. She was pretty well heartbroken, just like you wanted.

"She never cheated, you know. Never would have. I knew that, but at the time, I was so mad at her for getting to have you, and for using me like a damned cart horse, I thought it wouldn't matter; she deserved to die anyway. But seeing her hurt like that, I changed my mind. Decided to let her go. You know what she did, Leon?"

"Shut up," Leon hissed. "Stop talking."

"She said it was okay. She didn't want to live without you. Couldn't live with you hating her. So she walked up to me. Took my hands, still holding the gun, and pointed it at her own forehead. Begged me to fire."

Leon, as if from a great distance, saw his own hand on the table, and it was white as the saltshaker. He could hear his own breathing. "Hector," he said, "Shut your lying trap, or I swear to god I'll close it so it won't open again."

For a moment, he thought Hector was going to take the extremely sound advice. The small man did close his mouth, and he reached into an inner pocket, same way Jack had, all those weeks ago.

And, like Jack, he placed a few items on the table, starting with a picture. Of Imogen, spread out backwards.

In this picture, though, there was a dark hole on her head, and blood dripped from its edges. Her haunted eyes were open, but red-rimmed and shadowed. She had been crying shortly prior to the picture being snapped.

A vial of blood clinked down next to it. If Leon had it tested, he knew it would be Imogen's.

And Hector talked again. "I wouldn't fire. Couldn't. I'm a coward, like you said. But she guided my fingers, and I didn't know what to do. Didn't fight her. She pulled the trigger. She's dead, Leon."

Let no man say Leon wasn't as good as his word. If Hector had more to say, he didn't get the chance; Leon had put his fist through his friend's cruel, hard face, and the back of Hector's head smashed against the wooden booth-back like a recoiling rifle butt.

Hector slumped sideways, a pulpy lump where his nose used to be, unconscious and bleeding profusely.

Silent, perhaps thinking he was unnoticed by Leon, Anahuac Jack put on his hat, spun on his booted heel, and left the tavern through the emergency exit, not even bothering to collect his winnings.

Leon couldn't feel his fist. Or even his skin.

Every eye in the restaurant was on him; he stood as if alone on a stage in a nightmare, lines forgotten, helpless.

He stared down at his bleeding friend, but in the blood, and limp body, he only saw Imogen. The moment Hector had described for him played in his head as if he'd been there himself; he heard her cries, tasted her tears, felt her fear.

And like a movie playing on rewind, he saw Hector's jealous looks, his quiet desperation, his ridiculous gestures, all directed at getting the smallest validation out of Leon. A smile, a hand on the shoulder, a brief, casual thank-you. Saw Hector lighting up when he got what he wanted, shutting down on the days Leon ignored him.

Saw what a fool he'd been to play with his friend's feelings. To test him. To spend fifteen years raining mental abuse on him, then think he could be trusted to act sanely in the critical moment.

Leon heard the gun go off, saw Imogen collapse, eyes still open, hair spreading around her like the lava that would swallow her body.

_Imogen._

He found himself outside the restaurant, probably deposited there by kind, or, hell, unkind, patrons. It was cold; he slipped both hands into his pockets and found his wallet gone, but didn't care, not one bit.

Tonight he wouldn't have a place to sleep. Nothing to eat or drink.

What did it matter?

He sank down onto the steps, elbows on his knees, hands on his forehead.

All Imogen's crimes – real or imaginary, did it matter now? – were out of his head. Whether she'd cheated or not, he couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear the thought of her warm, tan skin white and cold. Of her bright eyes empty, staring up at the grey Carson City gas clouds, blind. Her open mouth, dry, with bits of ash floating into it.

He'd claimed to want her hurt. To want her dead.

But he hadn't believed it could happen. Not really.

She was untouchable. It hadn't mattered how loudly he railed, he hadn't thought she could be hurt. Not a goddess like her, not by some beach trash like him.

God, what had he done?


	24. Dusty and the Grahams

Henry didn't regret threatening Dusty with horrifying death. It had been a necessity. But he regretted the necessity. He liked the kid. Had liked him even as he pointed his spit-shiner between the kid's bright brown eyes.

The little bastard had looked so vulnerable, leaving the shop dressed in his souvenir merchandise. His purple shirt bore Henry's favorite tourist slogan: "Eat, drink and be merry; tomorrow you may be in Utah!"

His long, slender limbs stuck too far out of the shirt and shorts he'd picked, giving him the appearance of a scarecrow. His gait was awkward, his haircut, terrible, his expression, distant. He'd been vaguely smiling, like he was thinking about a girlfriend, or an old but funny joke.

Henry had known immediately that the kid wasn't from anywhere near here. He'd come from a city, and not long ago, either. His skin was soft, unmarked except for very new wounds. More than that, though, was his posture, his expression, his demeanor.

Anyone who lived out here, in the flats, or who traveled long through the American West, quickly developed a recognizable posture. A set of the shoulders, slightly bent, tense, protective, that told passersby _I'm ready to fight_. Henry had it himself, as did his wife and his mother, whom he introduced Dusty to in the basement of the shop.

Henry's mother, Dr. Graham, was a large black woman with prematurely grey hair. Her face was kind, but looked much older than it should. She'd had a bad ten years on the wastes.

She'd once been a tall, straight woman, but years of scrounging a living had ruined her posture and taken six inches off her height. That had been during Henry's childhood. In Henry's adulthood, after he'd built the store and made it successful, and made sure his mother no longer had to worry about food or necessities, his mother had stopped stooping, but she'd spread horizontally. The result was that she was now getting close to spherical. Henry didn't like the change, but Dusty broke into a wide, relieved grin at the sight of the fat woman. She looked like an archetypical cookie-baking, bootie-knitting grandmother, and the awkward teen boy was openly pleased to have someone so safe and soft to hug. Henry liked that Dusty didn't blink at the woman being black, while her son, Henry, was white.

"Honey bear," said Dr. Graham, rubbing Dusty between his wing-like shoulderblades. "You're havin' a bad day. Did my kids hurt you? Give you a hard time?"

"No!" cried Dusty, even as he wiped his running nose on the woman's sleeve. "I mean, I was scared, but I understand you don't like shoplifters…"

"Now, sit down, baby boy, we'll feed you."

Dr. Graham frowned. "Hope you like canned stew. That's pretty much what we eat around here."

"That'll be fine," said Dusty, still hugging, though Henry's mother had let go and was now sharing a secret, amused look with Henry and Elena. "Although, you know, you have stuff in the shop. Carrots and corn and bread and oil… I could cook, if you wanted."

This was a surprise, but no one objected. None of the three knew how to cook. They'd had to spend their lives developing other skills, more practical to life in the wild. Acquiring food they could do, and heat it to make it safe. Seasoning, mixing, real cooking, they were unfamiliar with.

So the Grahams sat at the kitchen table, which was really a square folding poker table, and watched Dusty work with a large frying pan he set over their main appliance, a single gas-powered burner.

As Dusty chopped potatoes and onions, Henry explained their family situation, hardly knowing why he was doing so. He felt compelled. There was something about this skinny kid that made Henry want to be honest with him, and help him if he could.

"Mom was a doctor," he said. "Not the kind who sees patients. A researcher. She was on the team that developed the California army's blood-eating virus."

Dusty, who had been shaking the frying pan, flipping diced potatoes to keep them from burning on one side, stilled, and turned slightly.

"I'm from California," he said.

Elena chuckled, elbowing Henry. "No wonder he's so cute. I've got a type."

Henry slung an arm around her sturdy shoulders. He wasn't offended by her commentary on the guy's looks; it was obvious to everyone in the room that little Dusty was gay. The tough-guy haircut wasn't fooling anybody, not with that high voice and those feminine mannerisms.

"Mom was kind of a VIP," Henry went on. "Important enough to live in Castle Santa Clara with King Cymbeline. I was friends with Prince Gideon when we were kids. But then one day, me and him got sick, and I lived and he didn't, and the king blamed Mom, and she got banished. That was, what, Mom?"

"You and Gideon were four, so it was twenty years ago this August."

"Girlfriend, don't burn the food," said Elena. Dusty was staring at the three of them, open-mouthed, and not watching his job.

"G…Girlfriend?" he sputtered after a moment.

"I'm just playin'," said Elena. "Sorry. You sensitive or something?"

"Oh," said Dusty. "No." He turned back to the food, and apparently it was done, because he removed the pan from the flame and poured the mass of food onto four dishes he'd set out earlier. It smelled damn good, and Henry was ready to eat it. Potatoes and eggs, onions, carrots, lots of salt and pepper and oil. Couldn't get better.

The food was passed out, and they ate in silence for some time before Dusty said quietly, "You said your name was Graham."

"That's right," said Henry's mother.

"But you're Doctor Morgan. THE Doctor Morgan."

Forks stopped moving. Mouths stopped chewing.

If it had been anybody else, Henry would have risen without a word, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and tossed him out into the gravel. But then, it wouldn't have been anybody else. In the five years he'd owned this store, though they had befriended many customers and even eaten with them out on the porch, or inside if there was a storm, little Dusty was the first person they had invited down into their basement.

It occurred to him again, itching at the back of his brain, that he couldn't think of a reason why that should be. And why Momma hadn't objected.

Whatever the reason, it saved Dusty's ass once again. Henry stayed put, as did they all. Eventually it was Momma who spoke.

"Dusty, dollface, I don't use the name Morgan anymore. Changed it after the banishment. It's not safe. Not that I'm a criminal, mind you, just banished. I didn't do what they say I did. But there are bounty hunters all over these parts, and that queen of Cymbeline's has had us tracked since day one. Doesn't want us coming back for revenge. Or cooking up bioweapons and selling them to the Mormons. So, yes, it was Dr. Morgan once. Now it's Momma Graham. Kay?"

"Kay," said Dusty, looking at his food, and they all went back to eating.

Elena reached out and rubbed Dusty's skinny shoulders.

She wasn't the type to do a thing like that normally.

Henry tried to think back over their interactions with Dusty, and found they had all known the kid less than half an hour. Hadn't even asked his story. They didn't know where he'd gotten all his money or what he was running away from, only that he was from California. And yet an unspoken agreement had been made between the three Grahams to not scare the kid away. To make him comfortable. To protect him, even from himself.

It was like they'd adopted a puppy.

In time, little Dusty told the bare bones of his story in his high, soft voice. He began by acknowledging that he couldn't tell the whole truth. "It's not safe," he said. "I know you guys have shared with me, but your secret's twenty years old. I only ran away a few days ago. Hunters are after me. They took my friend… You don't get magazines this far out, do you?"

"Nope. They don't sell. What were you running from?"

The kid grinned sheepishly down at his plate. "You'll find this hard to believe, but an arranged marriage, among other things."

"Jesus," said Elena. "Californians. They got Hollywood and Apple computers, but they're still living in the twelfth damn century."

"At least the upper classes are," agreed Momma. "If you told me who your parents are, I might know them, Dusty – no, don't, it was just a thought. We don't need to know any real information about you, not even your real name, it'll only be dangerous for you. You be Dusty, we'll be the Grahams, and life'll go on, all right?"

Dusty nodded at his food.

Poor kid. If he hadn't been too manly and self-contained, Henry would have patted the kid himself. The urge to do so was bizarrely strong.

He found himself analyzing the kid's face. There was something familiar there. The small, straight nose, the flat mouth, lips thin but prettily curved, thick eyebrows, small, bright eyes.

"This is delicious!" said Elena.

It sure was, and they all stuffed their faces.

Dusty cleared the table and washed the dishes without being asked, and nobody stopped him. Their manners had never been the best, and the truth was, they all felt like it was appropriate to let him do it. Momma was old and arthritic; she was nearly bedridden, and could no longer take the stairs up to the shop except in case of emergency; that was why she hadn't come up to take Dusty's order. Elena and Henry had spent the whole day working. Elena's feet were swollen from the pregnancy and the walking they'd done earlier. She and Henry had been gone when Dusty arrived because they'd been collecting saleables from a cargo crate that had fallen off a truck several miles out. Their instruments had picked up the crate, but hadn't been able to tell them what was inside it. Turned out to be soda. A nice find, but heavy, and probably not worth the walk. Since they had Dusty here, they opened a bottle for free, to celebrate.

Ordinarily, the Grahams drank nothing but well-water. Anything else was too expensive to waste.

Dusty had never had Utah soda before, and hesitated because it was dark purple, but with Elena and Henry on either side of him, out on the storefront bench, he couldn't find a way to politely resist.

Henry met his wife's eyes behind Dusty's narrow back. She was sparkling with good humor, and grinning as he'd not seen her do in a long time.

"Can we keep him?" she mouthed.

Dusty choked a little; Henry clapped him hard, and Dusty, giggling, burped up the bubbles that had gone down his throat.

Henry nodded at Elena, and held up a finger, mouthing, "One day."

"Come on, sunshine," he said, hauling the kid to his feet. "You've had a rough time, running off from home. Were you gonna sleep out on the flats alone? With your body tarp?"

Dusty nodded earnestly, and ran both hands through his hair in a weird, nervous gesture. He looked at his toes, then the horizon, then all around him, then he pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked himself like an overgrown toddler.

Elena let out an audible, "Awwww."

The kid _was_ a puppy.

"We got a couch," said Henry. "Sleep on it. We like you, maybe we'll let you hang, think about things, get your ass together."

The kid leapt to his feet, unfolding like a snapped rubber band. "Really?"

"My store, my rules. I order you to stay," said Henry, and it was ridiculous that when the kid grinned with delight, he felt his own mouth pull itself into a giant, answering smile. Dusty leaned down and hugged him awkwardly, like a giraffe trying to wrap its neck around a bush, and Henry laughed out loud.

Who the hell _was_ this boy, and why did he have this effect on Henry's family? Why did his chest suddenly feel warm and full, and why did he have the sensation that this skinny, dorky, puppy of an overgrown boy belonged in his home?


	25. The True History of Dr Morgan

In her bed, which lay in such a position that through her open bedroom door she could see the living room and couch, Dr. Morgan lay awake, staring at Dusty's bare feet and asking the same question Henry was.

Who the hell was this boy?

The face was _damn_ familiar, she just couldn't quite place it, but she had an organized, scientific mind, even after all these years, and knew how to sort out her own brain teasers.

He must be related to one of the people she'd known in California. He was probably from her same circles – royalty, courtiers, castlefolk. He'd run from an arranged marriage, he said. Arranged marriages were still practiced in the hinterlands, but they were much more common among nobles, and anyway, the kid had money. Tons of it. And he had bounty hunters chasing him, if he could be believed.

And Dr. Morgan did believe him. The poor boy had the most honest face she'd seen in years.

He was nineteen years old, which meant he would have been a baby at the time she was banished. Who, among her royal friends, had given birth to a baby boy around that time? Serena, Hermione, but no, neither of them looked like Dusty. Jessica? Her boy was too old, three or four.

The only other baby she remembered around the castle at the time was baby Imogen, a red-haired girl, so it couldn't be her, but…

_Snap._ Her brain made the connection. She knew who Dusty reminded her of.

The queen. Not the _new_ queen Bianca. Dr. Morgan still thought of her as new, a usurper, though she'd ruled for twenty years now. No, Dusty looked like Cymbeline's first wife. Small, sharp features set symmetrically, bright brown eyes, strong jaw, large forehead. Tall.

The possible explanations for the resemblance narrowed themselves all but instantly.

Possibility one: This boy was an illegitimate child of the queen.

The queen had died shortly before Dr. Morgan's banishment, and her most recent pregnancy had been Princess Imogen. She couldn't have hidden a pregnancy from her own doctor.

The boy was a relative of the queen, not a son. A nephew?

But no. Queen Innogen had been an only child, and anyway, an arranged marriage wouldn't need to be forced on a good-looking young man who wasn't in the direct line of ascension.

Dr. Morgan groaned and rolled herself upright. Waddling side to side, and hating her inability to sneak around with more dignity, she made her way as quietly as she could to Dusty's side, carrying a small candle.

She examined the boy as well as she could in the darkness, through the covers.

Specifically, the flat chest.

And saw, because she was looking for them, telltale signs she had missed earlier: thin, long lumps under the boy's shirt fabric. The outline of ace bandages. "Dusty" was concealing breasts.

And there, on the pillow: stains from hair-black. The kind sold in her own son's store, because Henry used it himself. Little Princess Imogen had been ginger, and it seemed she still was.

The princess. Here, in her own house.

After all these years.

It was enough to make a scientist believe in god. Too, too much of a coincidence.

Should she tell Henry?

Henry, bless him. Dr. Morgan waddled to his doorway, which he had left cracked probably for the same reason she had – to keep an eye on Dusty – and watched him, asleep, his arm wrapped protectively around his pregnant wife.

He was a boy any mother could be proud of. Dr. Morgan only wished he was hers.

Twenty-four years earlier, Dr. Morgan had given birth to a son she named Henry. She was unmarried, and if anyone asked, she assured them the father was out of the picture, though that wasn't entirely true.

In the same month, she'd supervised the labor of the queen of California, who gave birth to the crown prince of California, a boy named Gideon.

The boys had grown up together – or grown until they were four years old, at least. Being the same age, raised in the same place, eating their meals together, they were as good as brothers. The staff called them "the twins," they almost looked like they could have been brothers, despite the fact that they were different races. Henry was a light-skinned black child and Gideon was, like his mother, a very tan white child. Both had regular, babyish features. The only real difference in their appearance was hair color. Henry had black hair, Gideon, reddish-brown.

Dr. Morgan supervised the birth of the queen's second child, as well, healthy little Imogen. It had been a completely typical birth – until the queen, an hour later, had died while nursing the baby for the first time. A ruptured arterial aneurysm, pregnancy related, was Dr. Morgan's best guess. But she was not allowed to do the autopsy, since she suddenly found herself under suspicion for murder.

No hard evidence of what caused the death was ever found, but shortly after the death of the queen, Dr. Morgan had met, in the hospital hallway, a beautiful, bouncy-haired blonde woman, who had laid a long-fingernailed hand sweetly on her shoulder, leaned over, and whispered in her ear:

"I know you did it."

Dr. Morgan, hard to scare, had whispered calmly back, "That's nice, blondie. Want to tell me what the fuck you're talking about?"

The blonde had sweetly returned, "I know you did it…because I know who Henry's father is."

Dr. Morgan's blood had frozen.

"I strongly, _strongly _recommend, honey," the blonde continued, "that you disappear before anyone else gets hurt. Cymbeline may have a taste for strong women, but you're not going to be queen. And little Henry isn't going to be king. Californians don't like bastards, even royal ones. 'Kay?"

The woman patted her on the cheek and scampered down the hall, glittery heels clicking like the hooves of a gazelle.

How she had known, Dr. Morgan never found out. Perhaps the fact that the boys really were half-brothers showed, and no one else had seen it because they hadn't been looking for it.

The woman, whose name turned out to be Bianca Minola, had been more vigilant than most. She was on Cymbeline's arm every time Dr. Morgan saw her after that. The king had trouble meeting the doctor's eyes, and with good reason, though she'd never really wanted to marry the poor man. She was a doctor, not a queen.

Though Dr. Morgan hated Bianca, it hadn't occurred to her to suspect her of Innogen's murder until a month later. The day the boys got sick.

The boys had rarely left the castle. Cymbeline despised the paparazzi, who were desperate for pictures of the young prince, and he anyway didn't believe in wasting travel expenses on toddlers who weren't old enough to be making memories. At last, however, he was talked into allowing Gideon to accompany Henry on a trip to Disneyland. They would go with Dr. Morgan, who was not famous at the time.

Today, any Californian would recognize her – or her as she'd looked twenty years ago and a hundred and fifty pounds lighter – as easily as they'd recognize Adolph Hitler. At the time of the incident, she was only one of many castle staff who had power and access to the king, but not enough to make her interesting to photographers. Being mannish, middle-aged, and black in a white-centric world, she wasn't even a target of scandal speculation. It was decided that she could take the boys by herself, with only two plainclothes security guards, and give the king and Bianca a boy-free day.

Except before she left, she found herself, just briefly, face-to-face with Bianca Minola again. The woman was engaged to the king already. Cymbeline could be made to agree to anything if he were pushed hard enough, and Bianca could certainly push.

She weaseled her way up, handing Dr. Morgan a backpack full of supplies for the boys, and again whispered in her ear.

"I thought I made it clear that you weren't welcome here."

"You did," said Dr. Morgan, out loud.

Bianca giggled. "Not clear enough, apparently."

That was all. Bianca went her way, and Dr. Morgan took the children.

The doctor, who spent most of her waking hours observing the effects of fast-spreading, blood-eating viruses on laboratory dogs or captured spies, had very few good days. What she felt while taking notes on the shrieking animals and screaming men couldn't be called guilt, exactly. She'd been hired largely due to her total belief that, a) animal research, no matter how cruel, was morally acceptable as long as it was directed at human benefit, and b) California's enemies were her own.

Still, the fresh, young, smiling faces at Disneyland had been a relief. She hadn't realized how oppressed she'd become, down in the sterile labs, surrounded on all sides with triple-sealed tubes designed so that they could not be broken by human strength. Each contained variations on viruses that, if spilled, could potentially end humanity.

Dr. Morgan often thought that if the weak-minded king had understood exactly how dangerous her experiments were, he wouldn't let her conduct them.

The day at Disneyland was the single happiest of her life. Gideon and Henry had fast-passes to all the rides, and the king had paid for several special ins: Time alone with Mickey, a ride on Cinderella's float, a private breakfast with Aladdin and Hercules, at which the boys ate a mountain of Mickey-shaped waffles.

It was to be little Henry's last meal.

All day, he kept up with Gideon, racing him to rides, hanging off actors' arms, smiling hugely beside him in pictures. But at lunchtime, when they sat down with Ariel and Eric, Henry said he wasn't hungry. Gideon ate another pile of sweets, but Henry frowned at his food, claimed to not like French fries anymore, and only talked to the actors.

By evening, he was slowing down. Dr. Morgan thought he was only tired. He fell asleep in her arms while Gideon watched the Main Street Electrical Parade go by. The prince smiled up at his friend. "I'm tired too," he said. And he sat down suddenly, laid his head on the concrete, and passed out.

Still, Dr. Morgan hadn't known to worry.

A security guard carried the prince out to the monorail, and it was there, stroking Henry's neck, Dr. Morgan noticed the first lesion. A heart-shaped, violet soft spot above his third vertebrae.

Heart-shaped. The world rocked beneath her.

She knew the virus well. It shouldn't have been possible for it to get out; safety procedures were very, _very_ strictly followed.

There was only one person she could think of with a motive to kill the prince and Henry. The same person who had been in the hospital the day Queen Innogen mysteriously died. But there wasn't time to prove anything. All Dr. Morgan's energy for the next twenty-four hours was devoted to the hopeless search for a cure. A treatment. Anything to slow the spread.

The virus had still been in the developmental phase, which was something to be thankful for. If it had been made airborne, as was the eventual plan, California would be left as empty as Utah.

But at the moment, it could still only be spread by fluid contact.

The boys had both drunk from water bottles in the backpack Bianca provided them. Dr. Morgan planned, once the crisis was over, to have that pack thoroughly examined. To have that woman executed for what she'd done.

Henry, chirpy, smiling little Henry, never woke up, and that was something of a blessing.

The virus was horrific. A nasty, nasty thing, designed to be a terrifying specter to California's enemies. It killed, certainly, but hundreds of viruses did that. Dr. Morgan had a set of ten viruses to choose from that killed within an hour, and five that worked painlessly.

This particular virus – HBX1 – was designed to cause pain. Mental as well as physical. Its first effect, in adults, was to disfigure. The heart-shaped lesions grew and grew, then swelled. The swelling could double a victim's size in hours, and they ended up looking like they'd been attacked by particularly vicious hornets. The subcutaneous stratum thickened as well, preventing the bursting of the pustules until very near the time of death.

Fortunately, little Henry and Gideon weren't awake to see their bodies turn thick and shapeless as beanbag chairs. They were unconscious through the whole ordeal.

Dr. Morgan had no time to spend by her son's side. She was near him, certainly, and could see him when, from time to time, she stepped into view of his sickbed. But her place was at the computer, running simulations, ordering prototypes, monitoring graphed results of experiments taking place inside sealed cubes – various combinations of the virus in question and chemical suppressants.

Before her eyes, the prince and her son's bodies grew and twisted until they were unrecognizable. She kept injecting them with potential antibodies until she was physically stopped by hospital security.

Both boys, they said, were dead.

Dr. Morgan knew that. Henry's heart had stopped an hour earlier. Gideon's had stopped, they said, while she was in the next room, prepping an injection.

It was king Cymbeline himself who appeared before her. Took her to a back room of the hospital, behind a curtain.

He was a ghost of himself.

Dr. Morgan expected him to throw his arms around her. He'd lost his sons. _They'd_ lost _their_ son. And after the hug, she would tell him to have Bianca Minola arrested, her quarters searched.

But Cymbeline spoke first. "I don't know," he said, trembling, "how you could do it. Our child, Kalia, my children. How could you? First Innogen, now this? Will little Imogen be next? Will Bianca? How far did you think this could go?"

Absolutely thunderstruck, and still in shock from exhaustion and grief, Dr. Morgan only managed to spit, "_What?!"_

"Bianca told me everything. What she saw that day in the hospital with Innogen. Lab workers reported you stealing samples. Bianca has proof, videos, photographs."

Since this was impossible – Dr. Morgan had _never_ taken a sample from her labs without filling out extensive paperwork, and only then on the orders of a Schema or the king himself – it occurred to her for a moment to argue the specific accusations.

But that was silly. It wasn't the accusations. It was the accuser.

"That woman," Dr. Morgan managed, "Has bewitched you, Cymbeline."

"You'll be executed."

"My child is dead, the man I love is standing here accusing me of murder, my life's work is done, and you think I give a flying fuck what you do to me next? Listen, because this is not about me, it's about the country. That woman is poison, Cymbeline, _poison._ She's done this. I don't know how. I can't prove it. But she's behind all of it. Innogen's death too."

"Enough," said Cymbeline, circles growing under his eyes.

"Baby Imogen _will _be next. That snake will strike again. Then it'll be you. Bianca doesn't love you, Cymbeline. She wants to rule alone."

The king didn't appear to hear her. His eyes had gone glassy. He, too, was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Dr. Morgan wondered how many hours Bianca had kept him awake, pouring her venom in his ears, to have gained so much control over him.

"I can't watch you die," Cymbeline said vacantly. "I'm as weak as they say I am. Can't execute my lover, and I did love you, Kalia. A guard will take you through a back exit. You are banished. And… that's all, I suppose. Please go. Before an investigation reveals…anything."

"You mean reveals Henry shares DNA with you?" she said. "By all means, I'll hide it. Give me my son's body. I want to bury him myself."

The body had been wrapped and placed in her arms. She was put in a hood and driven to the California border quietly. Released quietly. The car had driven away, leaving her alone in the desert along with a single compressor pack of food, water, and a protective body tarp.

When she'd unwrapped the boy's body, intending to redress it properly for burial, she found it was not her son.

It was Gideon.

The boys had had their heads shaved before their skulls were opened to relieve the pressure on their swelling brains. Without their hair, they were almost identical. The mistake was understandable.

But the swelling had gone down – that was strange – and a starshaped birthmark on Gideon's collar was visible. It was him, not Henry.

And Gideon was alive.

The last set of antibodies had worked. Within a day, the swelling had entirely vanished.

At the time, Dr. Morgan was lean and fit. She carried Gideon for hours, straight into the wilderness. Underneath the tarp, during a sandstorm, he woke up at last – or rather, drifted into a confused, dreamy half-consciousness.

"Quiet, Henry," Dr. Morgan said when he cried out. He didn't object to the name, not then, not ever. In the terrible months of his convalescence, they wandered the desert together, thirsty, starving, desperate, eating poorly cooked cactus, burned jackrabbit carcass, drinking stale condensed water. Gideon was suffering far too much to concern his overtaxed four-year-old brain with the question of identity.

By the time he was five, he believed himself to be Henry, and Dr. Morgan to be his mother. He'd never questioned it since, despite the differences in their appearance. It wasn't like he really understood how genetics worked. There weren't opportunities for Mendelian genetics lessons in the wastes.

His recovery from the virus was astounding. Almost total. There was that leg, though, that crooked leg. The virus had penetrated his marrow and twisted the bone into a gentle bow shape, giving him a limp and deformity he would have for the rest of his life.

Dr. Morgan had, all those years ago, thought of him as a poor cripple. An object to be pitied and helped. She anticipated spending the rest of her life caring for him.

But the leg, once healed, didn't cause him any pain, and Gideon, now Henry, had grown into a sturdy boy, hard and otherwise healthy. From the time he was twelve he'd been the heavy lifter in their two-person family. He could do everything a straight-limbed boy could do and more, except sprint. And perhaps his walk was slightly slow.

Dr. Morgan attributed his recovery to his bloodline, which had showed itself admirably in every aspect of the growing boy's personality. He would have been king, and would have been magnificent. This was no weak, vacillating Cymbeline. This boy, in everything but height, was all his mother.

She never considered returning the prince to his homeland. That was her own total selfishness, she knew. It certainly wasn't to the boy's benefit to live with her in the wild. He couldn't help but be safer, better educated, freer, in California. And there, he would become king.

But Dr. Morgan remembered how much Cymbeline had owed her, and how he had treated her. Accused her of the unthinkable. And she couldn't do it.

Keeping Gideon was her revenge.

She told him the whole truth except for his own identity.

They saved some money after three years as farmhands. Saving had seemed impossible at first, with the pittance they were offered for their very, _very_ hard labor, but it turned out that on the wastes one dollar went further than ten in California. There wasn't anything to buy, of course. No medical care, no entertainment, no selection of shoes, no electricity bills, iPods, air conditioning. Money bought food, water, the barest excuse for shelter, and enough clothes to keep you covered. All of that was cheap.

It was Henry who decided to invest the money in a shop. He'd had some help, a deal with the Arizona draft commission, but Dr. Morgan preferred not to remember that.

At first the shop had been four stucco walls and three items for sale: Canned soup, bottled water, and bars of soap Dr. Morgan made from pear cactus extracts.

Henry had run that little lemonade stand of an establishment so well that it had grown year by year into what it was: the only oasis of functioning humanity, the only traveler's safe haven, the only reliable gas station, the only honest place of business in a radius of a hundred miles.

A kingly task, in her opinion. Henry had proved himself, by his ability to rule this small kingdom with wisdom, a cool head, and a practical amount of cruelty, to be more worthy of his royal title than his father had ever been.

He'd married Elena, and now they were pregnant, and life was good. Boy, Dr. Morgan would love to see Bianca's face, though, if Henry ever came marching back to California to claim his bloodright with his family in tow. His family.

Dusty. Dusty was his family, his sister, Imogen.

They all knew it. They'd sensed it in their hearts, the connection, and now, damned if they didn't feel as if they'd plugged a leak they'd never known about before.


	26. The Calm and the Storm

Three days with the Grahams, and neither they nor Imogen could imagine their lives had ever been different. Imogen – "Dusty" – mostly stayed downstairs in the kitchen, turning potatoes, jerky, eggs, and canned peaches into full, delicious, hearty meals. She ran up and downstairs for Momma, who appreciated the relief.

Henry told her it was great she'd dropped in. They'd need someone to run the shop once Elena gave birth, if only for a few weeks. Henry had to be out most of the day, on supply, maintenance, or security runs. He spent the first morning training her how to use the cash register and a few hidden weapons, and showing her how the shop could be sealed up in the event of a storm. Then he left, and Elena supervised Imogen at the register. It was easy. Only perhaps ten customers came by, but since this was the only decent stop in the region, and the only one with many types of vital travel supplies, most dropped over a hundred dollars each.

None threatened Imogen or Elena. The sense of civilization was strong in this little shop. The customers, rough-necks and obvious scoundrels though they were, seemed to feel it.

Elena was kind when she wasn't bitching. She let Imogen rub her back, and laughed – in a friendly way – at "Dusty's" feminine fingers and girly mannerisms.

"Your boyfriend's gonna be a lucky man when you grow up, Dusty," she teased. Imogen hardly knew how to react.

A week passed, and now it was standard that at night, they all stayed up around the folding poker table while Imogen told stories – myths she'd learned in school that were high entertainment to the bored, uncultured wasteland folks. Henry in particular soaked them up, asking questions, hanging on her words.

She loved them all, and knew they loved her. Him. Whatever. She'd never felt safer or more like she belonged, not even in Castle Santa Clara.

A month into her stay with the Grahams, Imogen, alone in the kitchen, cooking a fry-up and humming, realized all at once that she hadn't thought about Leon, or about any of her past life in California, for at least an entire day. It was fading. Behind her. Behind _him_, because as time passed, Imogen felt more and more like she truly was Dusty the gawky boy and not a princess in disguise. Her new, lower voice asserted itself automatically; she no longer worried about it, fearing a slip.

She had begun to forget it was a disguise at all. That she had had a former life, a smiling lover who had betrayed her. Life here in the store was honest, pleasant, free in its way.

And change was coming. Elena's baby would be here any day. Elena was worried about the risks of giving birth on the flats, without access to a hospital, but they had Dr. Morgan, after all. And Henry had somehow managed to order a supply of, not only spare sheets, but rubber gloves, an umbilical clamp, and surgical needles and thread, in case of complications.

Somehow Imogen doubted there would be, though. Elena was as tough as they came. Imogen suspected she'd drop the baby standing, pick it up, strap it to her chest, and carry on with the inventory stacking.

Imogen couldn't be looking forward to the new arrival more if the baby were her own niece or nephew, and in her daydream, the California worries slipped away, leaving her to build the small, happy fantasies of painting a crib and helping babysit.

A hand closed over her shoulder; a month ago, she would have screamed, but it had been so long since she'd felt physically threatened, now she only smiled at the strength and warmth of the touch.

"What's up, Henry?" she asked.

"Just whore hunting," answered Travis McGowan's voice. "Bang."

Imogen had the wherewithal to try to attack; she spun with the frying pan, thinking to burn him, but he anticipated her. Her wrist was suddenly clamped in his, and the pan banged to the ground, fanning greasy bits across the floor.

"Should I put this in the fire?" he asked. His body was wrapped around hers like Skintex, and he extended his arm, and her hand, toward the wide blue gas-flame. At the first brush of heat, Imogen's whole body contracted with terror and jerked against Travis, but he was inexorable. A muscle-bound machine.

"I would, bitch," he hissed in her ear. "I would. But your daddy wouldn't want any marks on you, would he? Not on your hands and face, at least. But believe me, bitch, tomorrow you're gonna be burning somewhere."

"HENRY!" Imogen screamed, but the word was cut short; Travis spun her and casually, expertly jammed his fist into her left kidney.

Pain exploded inside her. She dropped to her knees, as helpless as if she'd been unconscious. It was unbearable. He'd killed her, she was sure of it; she could have sworn she actually _heard_ her organs rupture at the impact, and now she was bleeding internally, bile and blood and urine oozing together into a burning, spreading pool that would eat her from inside out.

She didn't even resist as Travis dragged her up the stairs by her elbow. The clatter of her bones against the concrete frightened her, but already she was beyond additional pain. All she wanted was to be unconscious. To die.

Certainly, death would be better than whatever Travis had planned.

The shop spun around her; where was Elena? God, she'd been at the register – he must have hurt her. Killed her. The baby, oh, no, this was all her fault –

The world split and sparked; divided in two; realigned in faintly different colors. Travis had pulled her too quickly, and cracked her forehead on the metal doorway.

Blood was in her eyes.

"Bitch," she heard, as if through a thick wall. "Bitch, you got any idea how long I've been looking for you?"

Travis threw her to the ground, and she stared up at a flat picture of rolling red clouds, broken only by the edge of the gas station veranda. Why wouldn't this end? Why couldn't she pass out?

"How do I look?" Travis asked, and his face, which she hadn't yet gotten a good look at, filled her vision; he was on top of her.

God, he looked awful. Every pore he had was full of flatland grit; his hair, which she had only ever seen styled into fluffy, perky points, hung limp and ragged over bloodshot eyes.

One of his teeth was broken, and in her pain-filled delirium, Imogen could have sworn Leon's tattoo sat on the side of his face. The image swam.

It wasn't Travis at all, anymore. It was Leon. Leon smiling, glowing down at her. "You're beautiful, you know that, babe?"

And for an instant she was back, a nineteen year old in love with a beautiful, sweet, wonderful boy.

The vision cleared, and it was Travis again, snarling down at her, his weight all over her.

She realized she'd said Leon's name, because as Travis tore at her clothes, he hissed, "Surfer boy's not here to save you, bitch."

God. She couldn't take this. Not on top of the pain, not after she'd felt so safe, so happy – after believing she had escaped…

"I swore," Travis panted. He'd gotten to her ace bandage, and was tearing at it clumsily; his fingers dug between her ribs, in the sensitive cartilage, making her scream. "Swore that when I found you, alone out here, I'd show you what you're missing. You told me I wasn't worthy of Leon's uniform. How's it look on me now, you little tramp? Pretty good? You like that, don't you, you little slut?"

He was pressing her hand to his pants, against his erection, and she was too injured to fight.

"I like the disguise," he said. "Always said you were a dyke, and now you've proved it. I bet you'll like the taste of my dick, though. I'm gone grind you into the sand, bitch, and when I'm done, you'll beg me for more, because that's all you are, a set of holes for me to – "

There was a noise like a champagne cork popping, and Travis' weight was off her. She was staring at the rolling clouds again, immobile, and too shell-shocked to care what was happening, so long as he wasn't touching her anymore.

There was a smell like burnt toast. A roar of fury and pain.

"Yup," went Henry's voice, somewhere in the distance, or maybe that was him, standing six feet away, holding his recently-fired spit shiner and looking darn proud of himself. "That's what an acid plug feels like. Sit back and relax, another one's on its way. Oh, no, run if you want to. You ain't gonna outrun me, not with that hole in your ass."

Beautiful words, but Imogen was hardly aware if they were real or imagined. Then she found herself upright, leaning on Elena's sturdy shoulders – Elena had a swelling goose egg over one eye – and the two women made their way slowly back into the shop. The notification bell jingled merrily over their heads, mixing itself bizarrely with the sound of Travis' screams.

* * *

Elena may have been nine months pregnant, but she'd never felt more capable of tossing a man into a wood chipper and holding his head till the screaming stopped.

Lord, Dusty was a mess.

She and Henry had long since worked out that their little stowaway was female, but it had never quite clicked. Elena had had a dog once, long ago, that was female but looked male, and her family had called it Grover and said, "Here, boy," to it because it felt right, and so it had with Dusty.

Now, with clothes half-off and the chest-shrinking ace bandaged ripped, the sweet little guy was transformed into a tall, willowy woman, and Dusty's shy face with its pretty, downcast eyes was a mess of black and blue and blood.

Dusty's hands were shaking, and he couldn't stay upright; he walked bent, protecting a spot beneath his ribs, and once Elena had gotten the kid on the cold, clean tile and pulled his… her… hands away, she could see why.

Jesus, Dusty would be lucky to survive this. The bruise was sinister, dark, the size of a softball. It spread visibly as Elena watched.

"Holy Christ, kid," said Elena. "Hang on. No, don't move – I said don't move, and you're gonna listen to me, you hear? Stay."

She clambered down the stairs and returned with a blanket, a fresh T-shirt, and three pillows. She found Dusty sitting up on the floor, looking haggard but more awake.

Dusty accepted the shirt without a word and pulled it on. The shreds of his shirt and ace bandages lay all around him.

"Secret's out, huh," he whispered.

"Kid, shut your face, nobody here cares about your plumbing. And those tits got nothing on mine."

Dusty burst into nervous giggles. He – and he was still a _he_ to Elena, especially now that he had a man's shirt on, covering up the not-unimpressive breasts – let Elena lay him down on the pillows, and curled the blanket tightly around himself.

Elena felt his forehead. The kid was cool to the touch, too cool. He was shivering. She got another blanket, and Dusty clutched at it, teeth clacking violently.

"He's in shock," said Momma, who had finally waddled her way up the stairs. Elena had filled her in while gathering the blankets. "I'll take care of him. Go help your husband. I want that bastard nailed to the Utah cross, you hear me?"

Elena frowned down at Dusty. "I want to shoot him some too, but… is Dusty gonna be okay, Momma?"

Momma had pried the blankets from Dusty's hands and was probing at the spreading bruise. "Not sure, hon, but you can't help. Get on out of here. Don't let nobody see you killing that fucker."

Elena left, taking a couple spare acid plugs for Henry.


	27. Travis McGowan Learns a Lesson

Momma hated to do it, because Dusty was already so cold, but she forced him to hold a frozen pea bag against the giant bruise on his stomach. Dusty's shaking had gotten worse.

"Who is he?" Momma asked, rubbing the kid's skinny arms. "He came a long way to find you, baby. The arranged marriage?"

"Yeah," Dusty breathed. "It would have been him." He shuddered under Momma's touch, and Momma wished she had the strength of her children. She'd love to be the one outside, beating the living hell out of Mr. Rapist McWifebeater.

Dusty was crying now, and trying to sit up again. When Momma gently pressed him back into the pillows, Dusty snatched at her arm, and clutched it to his chest like it was a teddy bear.

"Leon," the kid whispered, "I want Leon."

And Momma got another piece of the mysterious Princess Dusty picture.

"Wish I had some Sleptrol," she said. "That'd calm you down. You need to sleep, baby. You've had a bad scare, and you're upset and in pain, but I don't think there's internal bleeding, besides the surface bruising. If you'd ruptured a kidney, we'd know by now."

Dusty blinked. "I have something," he said, sounding surprised at himself. "A vial of Tranquilex. It's the latest stuff. My friend gave it to me right before I left, just one dose, in case of something like this. Supposed to be a sleep-aid, everything. It's in the medicine cabinet …"

It took Momma some time to get down and up the stairs, but when she returned, huffing, she was holding the small vial of liquid.

"Can't believe I didn't crack and use it yet," whispered Dusty.

"A pinch of good luck to go with a plate of bad," said Momma. "Take it. Sleep. Swear, Dusty, seeing you hurt, it couldn't be worse if it were Henry or Elena. Don't know how we ended up so attached to you, kid, but I am. We are. We sure do love you."

Dusty's gangly arms wrapped around Momma's thick neck. He was crying again, and added hiccups to the mix. "I thought that was how I was going to die," he whispered. "Out there in the dirt, with him on top of me, calling me a whore. Hurting."

"No, baby, that wasn't gonna happen. Not with us around to protect you. Our stray bird."

"You're not mad I lied about being a boy?"

"Child, shut up and take your medicine."

Dusty laughed, and worked at the stopper cap on the vial. His fingers were unsteady; it slipped from his hands and fell to the tile.

Clink. Clink. Dusty gasped, but the vial didn't break. Of course it didn't. Momma herself, when she'd been Dr. Morgan, had been in charge of the design on that type of vial. It had been used, back then, to hold contagious viruses, and couldn't be allowed to break.

Momma popped the stopper herself. "Drink, baby," she said. "Sleep. You are loved."

Grimacing, Dusty tossed back the dose, and immediately relaxed back into Momma's arms, letting Momma stroke his ragged hair and kiss his sweaty forehead. His long body went soft, and he drifted to sleep, clutching Momma's shirtfront and smiling.

* * *

Henry had suffered many times at the hands of criminals on the wastes. Once, as a child, he'd watched a gang of bandits rape and nearly beat the life out of his mother. They'd left her for dead, and he'd had to nurse her to health for three days. It was luck alone that they'd survived. That there had been rain, so they could drink, instead of a sandstorm to strip their flesh from their bones.

He'd been robbed and cheated, and his suppliers had been robbed and cheated, and the lives of his wife and mother were threatened on about a bi-weekly basis.

Yet he'd never been so angry as he was now, on behalf of stupid, gawky Dusty. The sight of the man on top of the kid, tearing at his clothes, screaming whore… the lost, hopeless expression on Dusty's face. The poor kid had been praying for death. The kid he thought of as a brother. Tears in his eyes, and the blank stare of a person trying to remove their soul from their body. Trying to fly away from shame, terror, pain.

Henry fired his acid plug again.

Henry hadn't been able to fire a direct shot earlier, to punch a hole through him, since to do so would have endangered Dusty. He'd only clipped the bastard's ass and sent him flying. This plug was aimed at the bastard's torso… but it didn't connect. The guy dove out of the way with surprising agility, and Henry frowned at him.

Not that he was afraid of the guy. In another circumstance, perhaps, this big, muscled man would have been a match for bent-legged Henry, even with Henry armed. But the man was injured already, and foaming at the mouth. A wounded coyote, an animal without a brain. No match for a clear-sighted human.

"Do you KNOW who I AM?" howled the man. He wrenched himself upright, but couldn't put weight on the leg with the burned buttock.

Henry raised his eyebrows in answer and set about reloading. The rifle had a bayonet, and he let the man get a good look at it so he wouldn't jump in and try to interfere.

"I," cried the man, staggering wildly, "Am Travis McGowan, First Colonel under King Cymbeline of California. Sent here on the personal orders of Queen Bianca of California. You've just committed a war crime, you redneck asshole!"

"Don't be talkin' about assholes," said Henry. "Seein' as I'm about to give you a third, you might want to learn to like 'em."

"What the hell _is_ that? Christ, it burns!"

The man spun comically, trying to look at his wound.

"Lemme give you a better view," said Henry, and he walked in just a bit to make sure the man couldn't dodge.

Damn! The man wasn't as wounded as he'd pretended; he pounced, and got his hand on the rifle. Didn't manage to snatch it, but they were in a tug-of-war now, one which Henry would have lost if he weren't facing an opponent with a stance as uneven as his own.

Henry tried to ram his own elbow into the stock, to crash McGowan in the head, but McGowan anticipated, spinning with the blow and almost wrenching the rifle free. For a heart-stopping second, the business end of the gun, bayonet and all, stared Henry in the eyes, and he only just managed to duck; McGowan fumbled and the thing went off, spitting a plug that ended up burning a hole in the dirt twenty-five yards away.

"How you gonna reload now, jackass?" sneered McGowan.

Henry wrenched at the gun; McGowan released, and Henry flew backwards.

The larger, more muscular, better-trained man was on top of him now, arms around his head, and Henry realized with cool detachment that he was about to get his neck snapped. Practical thinker that he was, he'd come prepared for losing the weapon, of course; that could happen in any fight, and he had knives in his pockets and a can of coyote mace in his boot. But he couldn't get at them. He'd underestimated his enemy.

Fortunately, Henry had an automatically-deploying Plan C, and he knew it had worked because, just as a tightening of McGowan's arms would have snapped his neck, the arms loosened, and McGowan spit out a horrified curse along with a thin line of blood.

A blade tip emerged from his neck, and Elena, behind him, removed the knife with the calm of a woman chopping up dinner meat.

Ironic. Elena had never been good at making dinner.

The wound would kill him if left alone for a few hours, but proved to not be immediately fatal. McGowan got dumped back onto the sand, and stared up at the two of them, eyes burning with hatred, bleeding. But the knife had been thin, his neck, thick, and the blade had gone in close to the side, not in the middle; no critical arteries had been severed, and the wound wasn't spurting.

Henry made eye contact over McGowan's head at his wife. She nodded significantly.

This man would be alive long enough to suffer.

Henry felt a swell of pride as his magnificent wife, pregnant as she could be, loaded the acid plug herself and shot off McGowan's right hand.

"For my boy Dusty," she said. "Stop that screaming, man, have some damn dignity."

"For my wife. You don't hit women out here in Utah, Colonel. We're _civilized._" Henry blew off the man's foot. He wanted the man to have at least one hand intact for what was coming.

The man was a screaming, drooling horror movie wreck already, but Henry and Elena didn't manage to form a thought of mercy between them. By his injured limbs, they dragged him out back, to the stake with its many nails.

Henry really had nailed people to this cross. The youngest had been sixteen. The oldest had been sixty-five. None had deserved it so much as the mewling, puling excuse for a human that lay gasping beneath him now.

"You'll pay for this!" McGowan shrieked. Tears had cleaned trails down his cheeks like war paint. Pain-induced insanity warped his words. "King's gonna come, he's gonna come after me. Gonna boil you in oil. He'll eat you. You and your spawn! Jesus, my _hand!_"

Henry, ignoring the commentary, worked a nail out of the wood and placed it against the corporal's palm.

"Rednecks…" the man gasped. "Couple of rednecks… this can't be happening. California's at war," he added, pleadingly. "I'm supposed to lead us. The battle will be at the Grand Chasm. I'm gonna be at the head of the first wave. The king, the king knows, ask him, he trusts me. He wants me there. Let me go back."

"If the king lets you lead the first wave," said Elena, "It's not because he trusts you." She stooped and picked up the half-brick they liked to use as a hammer in these situations. "He would've raped Dusty, hon. Don't you get sorry for him."

"No danger, babe." Henry, suddenly overcome with how lucky he was to have found this powerful, resourceful, beautiful woman, caught his wife in a deep kiss. The baby, squeezed between them, kicked, and Henry wondered if something of this moment was going to manifest in the baby. If he'd be born with a brick in his hand, ready to nail criminals to crosses. Henry hoped so.

"So, Colonel," he said, raising the brick, "Ever heard of a Utah crucifixion?"


	28. Funeral

The sun was setting when Henry and Elena made their way back into the shop, holding hands.

McGowan was still alive, though he had a few more holes in him. Bastard was tough. The desert would kill him painfully overnight, there was no doubt, and the happy couple leaned on each other, sharing the simple pleasure of teamwork and a job well done.

But they found Momma sitting on the tile shop floor, with Dusty wrapped in her arms.

Dusty was stiff. His lips were blue.

Henry found himself gripping the counter for support, and Elena let out a furious, "No!" and, more quietly, sinking to her knees, "No, he's gonna be okay, isn't he, Momma?"

"There must have been internal bleeding," said Momma. "I let him take a sleep-aid, thought he'd be all right, it was just a nasty bruise. But it could have been anything. Ruptured kidney, liver, pancreas, they're all in the area. He didn't suffer. Oh, babies, come here, I need you."

And the three of them knelt around Dusty's cold body.

Henry ran his thumb across the kid's lips, as if searching for breath. "God, Momma," he said, "Why's this hurt so bad? We barely knew him. Her. Didn't even know his real name. Feels like, I don't know, like I'd feel if we lost the baby. Or you or Elena. Sorry, hon, it just, I don't know," and for the first time in his adult life, Henry found himself wiping away tears.

"Shush, babe, I know what you mean," said Elena. "I feel it too."

"And me," said Momma. "I'd have taken his place if I could, in a second. Like a baby bird, kids, he flew right into our nest, and we loved him. Too good for this world, that's what. Oh, babies, go to sleep. I'm a doctor. I'll wrap him up. We'll take him to the graveyard in the morning."

The graveyard wasn't really a graveyard, as it contained no graves, but it was the place where the Grahams gave corpses back to the desert.

"God, Momma." Henry clutched his heart. He was genuinely afraid it might stop. Why, after all he'd seen, was this small sight enough to undo him? "God."

Elena wasn't crying, but her voice broke slightly as she said, "Momma, he's smiling."

"He wasn't in pain. He knew we loved him."

Henry knelt across the body of his friend, took the cold, sweet face in his hands, rubbed his thumbs across the lips, the eyelids, the fuzzy brows. Anger swirled inside him, not just at the death, but because he didn't understand why he should feel so strongly about it. Ever since the awkward, sweet, stick-limbed teenager had gangled into their family, it had felt complete. Now, the incompleteness was back. He'd not been aware, before, of the constant sensation of missing a piece of himself. Now that he'd had that piece, and it had fallen out of his life again, the pain of it was far worse than it had been before he knew what completeness felt like.

It felt natural, though he'd never done anything like it, to pull Dusty to him and kiss his dead face, a face so relaxed, with its innocent smile, that it might have been only asleep. Elena kissed Dusty next, and Momma did too, and they all stayed around him, kneeling as if at an altar, unable to leave the boy who, though he'd been an adult, they had all thought of as an adopted child.

* * *

In the morning, at the first glowy hints of dawn, the Grahams made their way slowly around to the back yard. Dusty was slung over Elena's shoulder. Henry would have liked to carry his friend, but his job was to carry the heavier body – Corporal McGowan, whom they expected to find dead at the Utah cross.

Dead he was, but they all jumped at the sight of him. An animal had been at the body. Its tracks led away, and Henry, examining them with a flashlight, pronounced the verdict:

"Buffalo."

"Yowza," said Elena.

Buffalo had once been a peaceful species of herbivores, large, cow-like creatures that roamed North America in the millions. Change of habitat and an increase in hunting had brought them to near-extinction, but they had evolved to survive: Evolved a mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth and a taste for human blood.

Or, in this case, human brains, apparently.

McGowan's head had been ripped clean off his shoulders, and it was nowhere to be seen. Shreds of neck that had clung on too long hung stretched, in jagged, finger-like strips around the wound, so that it looked like an exploded party cigar.

"He was still alive when it happened," Momma noted impassively. "Look at all the blood that spurted."

"Lucky for him," said Henry. "I'd rather get my head bit off than die of thirst, any day."

He worked the nails out of the headless corpse and tried to work out the best way to carry it so residual blood didn't drip all over the back of his shirt. Eventually, though the man was heavy, Henry was forced to settle for carrying him in his arms like a baby.

At least the body was ten pounds lighter than it'd been yesterday.

The "graveyard" was a quarter-mile out, in the center of a pretty patch of Joshua trees that had grown naturally into a ring. Typically, after an execution, Henry placed a body here, lying face-up on the ground with a barrel cactus flower over each eye, stood a minute in silence, and left. If he returned in a week, all traces of the body would be gone, even the bones. It was less work than burial, and somehow, Henry felt, more respectful. He hated the thought of being covered in dirt, hidden away and smothered like a dirty secret. Much better to be allowed to dissolve back into nature, to let the wind and sand and hungry animals make use of you.

They were faced with the awkward problem of not wanting to lay Colonel McGowan, scum that he was, beside dear, sweet Dusty. The circle of bare earth was only about ten feet across.

"You know what?" said Momma at last. "Dusty wasn't the resentful type. The colonel, whoever he was, paid his debt. Lie them side by side."

"Momma!" cried Elena.

"Shush, it won't make no difference."

Henry, who was tired of his burden, laid the colonel down, and the corpse, without a head, and with its many, many wounds, made a sight that evoked pity even in him. For a second, the logical part of his brain tried to remind him that this corpse was the reason Dusty was dead; this corpse, when it was a man, had beaten his friend so hard that internal bleeding had killed him.

But the hand that had done the beating had been blown off, the cruel face had been torn away, the frightful, dangerous strength had leaked out. This body was an empty vessel that could have held any human soul, and with Dusty laid next to it, smiling, Henry felt nothing but a dull ache of loss.

"Cover my baby with flowers," said Momma.

Henry was sent to gather them. Elena, who confessed at last to feeling the effects of a near-term pregnancy on her muscular body, sat at Momma's side and rested as Henry scoured the desert. What flowers there were, were in full bloom at dawn. He gathered armfuls of orange-red Indian paintbrush, half-dead sweet William, and two large purple cactus buds.

The Grahams lovingly placed the flowers until Dusty's whole body was covered, except his face; Henry placed the last flowers, the cactus buds, over the kid's eyes himself.

"We don't usually say words for the dead," he muttered. "This is the first time I feel like we oughtta."

"Anybody know any prayers?" asked Elena.

None of them did.

Momma, at last, said, "I remember a poem. Heard it at the queen's funeral. Think it's appropriate. Shall I?"

Henry and Elena bowed their heads. Momma, not used to wearing her civilization cap, shuffled and cleared her throat several times, then began in a shaky voice which grew stronger as she went on:

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,  
Nor the furious winter's rages;  
Thou thy worldly task hast done,  
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;  
Golden lads and girls all must,  
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;  
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:  
Care no more to clothe and eat;  
To thee the reed is as the oak:  
The sceptre, learning physic, must  
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,  
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;  
Fear not slander, censure rash;  
Thou hast finished joy and moan;  
All lovers young, all lovers must  
Consign to thee, and come to dust."

"Amen," said Henry and Elena in unison.

The three turned and slowly returned to their home, which was unchanged from six weeks ago, except that it had a blanket and pillow thrown over the couch, and a gaping chasm where Dusty used to sit.

Their timing was good; a battalion had crossed the horizon, in Minutemen uniforms, and a few officers, free of the formation, were making their way towards the shop. Customers. Normal life. Would it ever feel normal again, without Dusty?

At the door, Elena gripped Henry's hand as hard as she ever had.

"Deal with them, sweet cheeks," she said through clenched teeth. She was sweating, and leaned heavily on the doorframe. "I'm gonna go downstairs and have a baby."

Henry's jaw tightened. He'd felt too much emotion, these last twenty-four hours, and couldn't bear much more. "Try to make it a boy, babe."

"Do my best. Momma'll call you if she needs you."

Henry kissed Elena on the cheek, and let her disappear downstairs. In the old way, he closed his eyes, let his emotions drain away, straightened, pulled on his uniform apron, and waited calmly for customers.

Life went on. Leap the hurdles you can, that was how Henry Graham did business, and he never let the officers who came to talk to him have any hint that his first-born child was coming into the world ten feet below them.


	29. The Body

The scent of fresh flowers gently pulled Imogen into wakefulness. It was a slow rise from deep, strange dreams. One moment she was safe in the arms of a large, motherly woman who loved her, but it wasn't her real mother, and Imogen couldn't recall her name. Then she was flipping pancakes while two stout, dark desert-dwellers laughed and cheered when she caught the pancakes with skill straight out of Cirque de Soleil.

Then someone whose name she remembered: Travis. Travis kicking her, punching her, dragging her, his hot breath in her mouth, and she wanted to run but her body wouldn't move.

Last, Travis' nasty sneer resolved into Leon's face.

But he wasn't smiling. Imogen couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Leon without at least a wry smile on his face.

This Leon was clutching her; she lay with her arms at her sides, unable to speak or move, helpless as a corpse, and he rocked her upper body back and forth while her legs stuck out in front of her, still as fallen tree trunks.

"Imogen," Leon whispered, eyes brimming, mouth trembling. "Baby, I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd do it. Forgive me. Tell me you forgive me, Christ, Imogen, I can't live with this. Oh, god, wake up, wake up, wake up," and he melted into the delicious flower scent, and she was awake.

Warm. Comfortable. Thirsty, though; it was time to get up.

But she moved, and instead of eight-hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton, her fingers met twigs and dirt. She opened her eyes…

"Argh!"

And she batted the magenta insects out of her eyes. They turned out, once she had calmed down, to be flowers. And she was covered in more flowers, wild, feathery orange-red ones on long black twigs, twined around her body.

She lay on beige dirt in the middle of a circle of crooked, leafless trees. Through the trees, she could see an unfamiliar landscape stretching for miles. Dry flatlands broken by scrub brush and more of the crooked, finger-like trees. Above her head were flat, rolling clouds that blocked the sun. What time was it? Sunrise or sunset, since only half the clouds were lit.

Panic washed over her. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Her memories were a jumble. She remembered running from the palace with Hector, but that had only been a dream, hadn't it? She tried to grasp the specific details of the escape, and they swirled away from her, twisting free of coherence like ink drops in water.

She sat straight up, and the flowers fell away from her, and all her fears vanished as a new horror overtook her.

Beside her, there lay a headless body.

In a California Army uniform.

_Leon_, her mind cried, but it couldn't be Leon. There was a reason… he wasn't here, he hadn't come with her… They'd had a fight?

She shook her head.

Her extremities weren't working properly; she found she could rise onto her knees, but couldn't walk, and she crawled, petrified, to the body.

Memories came back to her, somewhat in order, as she did so. She was sure, now, that she'd run from the palace with Hector. She remembered standing with him, alone, in the Carson City ruins, while he played for her the horrible vlog recording of Leon ordering her death.

She remembered being on her own, wandering. Approaching a store. Friendly faces. That was all. How long ago had that been? She'd cut her hair off; now it was hanging in her eyes; it must have been months ago.

Leon had been in her dream. Apologizing to her.

That must be real. They must have reunited. But where was he?

That horrible dead trunk with its oozy, gaping neck seemed to loom over her, a mountain in the distance, but now she was at the body, pawing it, and it was human-sized again.

_His_ size. Muscled, like he had been, but oh god, not only headless – damaged and torn, missing a hand and a foot, burned with acid, and smaller holes that had been made by bullets or nails.

She grasped the corpse's remaining hand. It looked like Leon's, but it was so damaged, oh god, how could she be sure…

The tattoo.

Gasping, trembling, she tried to pull the corpse's collar down. It had been soaked in blood, and the blood had congealed, melding itself to skin, turning the cloth collar into a hard, sticky mass that couldn't be moved by her numb fingers.

Crying out, she cast around her until her hand caught on one of the long flower-twigs, and she managed to lift it like a knife. To dig it into the bloody mess and divide cloth from skin, to pull the collar away like a sticky banana peel.

And reveal the middle of a long zark tattoo, one she knew too well. If she continued peeling away the cloth, she'd find its tail pooling on the body's stomach; if the neck hadn't been sliced, the tattoo would continue up, ending in a spiky, toothy, tribal profile on the cheek of the handsomest man in California.

Leon. The headless body was Leon.

In that moment, confused and disoriented as she was, the image of Leon she'd had for weeks and weeks in her head, of him dark-eyed and seething, whispering assassination orders to Hector, calling her a whore in as disgusting a tone as Travis had ever used… vanished.

All she could see was the tall, smiling boy on the beach. The boy who'd given her her first kiss under the Crystal Pier, while cold waves slapped the air and he wrapped himself around her to protect her from the splash.

She felt his strong fingers combing through her hair, heard his whispered, "Marry me," and his breath on her shoulder after she'd said yes and he'd clutched her into a hug that was half giddy relief, half fear.

His hands on her body, strong and gentle. His fingers, spinning the clasp of the Joystone, dancing across her navel and raising goosebumps.

The broken tooth.

She'd never see his face again.

This couldn't be happening.

Turned out, it had been sunset; the haze behind the clouds was retreating toward the horizon, and despite her thirst and fear, Imogen didn't move for nearly an hour; she lay stretched across the body's chest, clutching at the golden uniform fabric, trying not to let despair snatch her up into the clouds.

Leon. Leon. Leon.

Her husband.

Time passed, and she remembered what he'd done to her.

But had he? She had only Hector's word, and the video, but videos could be doctored, couldn't they? It was clear to Imogen that she was suffering from amnesia; who knew what had happened in the intervening months to clear Leon's name?

After all, they'd ended up together. Left for dead in the desert. But why wasn't she wounded? Why was _she_ covered in flowers, while Leon's headless trunk had been left open to the sky, leaking into the ground, a smelly, bloody beacon calling vermin to come and feast?

And why was she still wearing her "boy" disguise? She and Leon must have been on the run. They must have been caught.

Perhaps Imogen's amnesia had come on because she was blocking out the trauma of seeing Leon beheaded.

God, it didn't even look like a blade had done it. The head had been _ripped off_, as if by an animal.

The thought of the fear Leon must have felt in the seconds, minutes before it happened filled her up, threatened to spill out like vomit, but all that came was tears.

She cried herself empty, and it was now twilight, but a faint glow came from behind her, the opposite direction of the setting sun.

Gasping, empty and exhausted, Imogen turned, and found a sight that would have amazed her if she'd had the ability to be amazed any longer.

A tall, bald, glowing man stood staring down at her. A meteor crater native.

They tended to look alike, but Imogen had seen this one enough times to recognize him. A needle of relief penetrated her heart; this man wasn't dangerous.

It was General Lloyd.

Her father had always respected him, and she had too.

Behind the general stood a large, silent group of people even stranger-looking than himself.

They were all beautiful, but not in a human way. The word _angels_ flashed through Imogen's mind.

They had sculpted faces with pointed, almost cartoonish cheekbones, jutting chins, and high foreheads. Their hair was long and curled, in pale, unnatural colors: lavender, sky-blue, pink. She couldn't tell whether they were male or female; they all wore sleeveless, knee-length golden robes clasped at the waists, and Imogen saw no sex characteristics.

And their eyes…

Eyes without irises or pupils, eyes which nevertheless were clearly fixed in Imogen's direction.

"Pardon," said the General. "We made camp a few miles away, and our scanners detected no human life. Then, an hour or so ago, a signal popped on out of nowhere, and we decided to check it out. Looks like the signal was you."

Were they going to attack? Imogen didn't think so. Neither the general nor his silent, angelic army looked more than curious. Still, it crossed her mind that they might want to touch Leon's body, and her fingers clenched in his shirt.

"I _said_…" the general's voice was patient, but loud, and Imogen realized he was repeating himself; she hadn't heard him the first time. "Is there anything we can do for you?"

Imogen licked her dry lips. "Water."

Immediately, one of the angel people stepped forward, producing a long, calf-skin canteen, and Imogen drank quietly, not caring that she was the center of attention. Stagefright was beyond her shattered emotional capabilities.

"Your name?" asked Lloyd. "And his? How'd you get out here all alone? Where are your supplies?"

He hadn't recognized her. If she'd been all herself, Imogen might have been insulted.

"My name," she said, "Is Dusty…Graham."

Why she chose the name, she had no idea. It had been sitting on the tip of her tongue, and she let it out, easily.

"This man was a Journeyman in the California army. I was his… his acolyte."

Acolytes were assistants to militiamen, treated as apprentices. It was a softer path to military service than the traditional boot-camp route, and was usually reserved for noblemen whose parents could buy their way into the position.

"He was a good master to you?" Lloyd said sympathetically. "I can't remember the last time I've seen a soldier cry that way over a commanding officer."

"The best," said Imogen. "He was the best man that ever lived. Outlaws captured us. They killed him and left me for dead."

"Yes, I can see."

Now one of the angels opened its mouth, and the noise that came out was enough to restart Imogen's heart. It was not a beautiful sound, as she might have anticipated, if she'd given the matter any thought.

It was a hard, birdlike noise, a loud series of jabbering clicks. The angels seemed even less human than before.

"I know," said the general. To Imogen, he said, "They want to return to camp. A wave of rolling lightning is headed this way. We'll be scorched if we stay… and you will, too. Will you come with us, Dusty Graham? We're on opposite sides of a war, but you strike me as a good man."

Leon's shirtfront was still clasped in Imogen's fingers. Would she? Go with these people?

"I can't leave him," she said. Her voice was still scratchy and harsh from sobbing.

"We can give him a proper burial at camp," said the general. "You gathered these flowers for him? We can bring them. Place them at his gravestone. Come with us, boy. We've come a long way to find you, the spontaneously generating lifesign in the desert. And I could use an assistant. Someone loyal and brave, as you obviously are, to stay with your master's body this way."

Imogen looked up at the general. Experience had taught her, time and again, not to trust a kind face. But she hadn't learned the lesson. General Lloyd's sad, understanding expression made her want to trust him. Her knowledge of his service history did the same. He reminded her of Hector.

But…

"Who are these people?" she asked, indicating the angels.

General Lloyd smiled. Night had fallen, and he lit up the area around him as if he were a green-tinted halogen bulb. Around him, the angels glowed slightly, too.

"Dusty," he said, "You may have heard of these people, but I doubt you've ever seen them, since this is the first time they've left their homeland since before your birth. They come from Xalt Lake City, and they're called Mormons. Come. They won't hurt you, and neither will I. Please – do me the honor."

His massive, glowing hand was extended, and what could Imogen do but take it? He pulled her to her feet and led her behind the crowd, to a waiting horse; she sat behind him in the saddle, and the position felt natural – like it had been waiting for her to fill it.

The Mormons didn't ride; they walked swiftly and silently, so much so that Imogen believed their feet weren't touching the ground, but hovering a centimeter or two above it. They skimmed along as if on an oil slick. The largest of them carried Leon's body like it was hollow. His face revealed nothing, but he cradled the body protectively, and never let it touch ground until, at a large military encampment, a deep grave was dug. Leon was placed there, in a simple, white coffin, and buried with military honors.

And the next day, General Lloyd told a thin and frightened, but saner, Imogen the story of the Mormons, and why they were planning to fight alongside the Arizona Minutemen in an attack on California.


	30. Mormons

In eighteen twenty-three, the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith led a small, hardy band of followers from New York to what would become Utah. On foot. A ridiculous undertaking, an errand which would never have been attempted without the aid of religion. Their numbers were reduced by half every month they traveled. Some, the lucky ones, died of cholera, or drowned crossing the Mississippi, which at the time was ten miles wide and full of man-eating water moccasins. Others were fried by the lightning wall that separated Illinois from Iowa. The lightning wall wasn't solid; it was a miles-wide stretch in which lightning zapped from a clear sky every few minutes, every few acres, without regard to what was tallest or shortest or made of metal in the area. The Mormons thought it could be crossed, at a run, with a loss of only a few of their band. They lost two hundred.

A small, weary, thirsty group eventually made it to Utah, where they came upon a large, shining lake, which today was known as The Great Xalt Lake.

They worried, at the sight of the long-wished-for water, that what they had found was somehow poisonous. No plant life grew at the edges of the lake. For a full quarter-mile around it, the land was dead.

However, there was really no choice but to try it. Having been days without fresh water, many of the group threw themselves into the lake.

They found, to their delight, that though the water had a faint salty aftertaste, it was drinkable, and those who drank it were not sickened. Some even recovered from the bacterial gut infections they'd acquired from the less-safe waters of the Missouri. They settled at the lake's rim, established a city, and proclaimed they had found the promised land.

What they didn't know at the time – what they couldn't have known – was that the lake was full of Xalt deposits, Xalt being an as-yet undiscovered chemical, odorless, with a faint salty aftertaste. It contained a radioactive carbon isotope, and was a vicious carcinogen.

After a year, the effects began to show themselves. The Mormons lost half their population again, and seemed due to die out entirely in a matter of months. But a small portion of the population showed resistance to the effects of the Xalt. They didn't grow sicker; indeed, they grew stronger, at least physically. But they began exhibiting bizarre behaviors – a tendency, first, to mix up words. Sometimes whole sentences would come out with the sounds in opposite order, as if they were records being played backwards. The effect was as frightening to listeners as one might imagine, and it was thought these sufferers were possessed.

The immune people eventually ran from the town, requiring total solitude. Usually they went to the beach of the Lake, where they sat staring at the waves for days at a time, without eating or drinking.

Eventually they began to dig. They would bury themselves, digging headfirst, like moles, during low tide, and by high tide, not even their feet would be visible; the water would cover and fill the tunnels they had made, and they were assumed dead. Xalt madness, it was called, and it was simply thought of as another trial sent by God, no different from cholera, lightning, or bowel cancer.

Mormons lived in dread of contracting this mental disease, but when it came over them, it banished all fear with it. Apparently, one of the first symptoms, unnoticed until the more obvious aphasia kicked in, was a burnout of the fear response in the brain.

An entire year passed. Nearly all the Mormons either died of radiation-induced cancer or succumbed to Xalt madness.

But after that year, during the summer solstice, the few dozen remaining settlers, most of whom were on the edge of death, saw something amazing:

Along the shoreline, as the sun rose, hundreds of small holes appeared in the sand on the lake's bank. From these holes, like they were on elevators, rose figures like human bodies. Upright, glowing, naked, pretty as glass figurines, with hair in every shade of the rainbow. Their faces had changed; their eyes were all whites. They waited until they had risen entirely free of the ground and walked, as if sharing one mind, back to the settlement.

Though intensely altered, a few were still recognizable. These were the sufferers of Xalt madness, the ones who had disappeared into the earth and been thought lost.

And they were what was left of Joseph Smith's original group of Mormons, that had left New York in hopes of starting a new religious colony in peace and solitude.

All this, General Lloyd told Imogen, was what the Mormons – the angelic, tall people now making camp with them – had been told by the few dozen survivors at the edge of the Great Salt Lake. They – or rather, their great grandparents, for this was the fourth generation of such beings – had no memories from any earlier than the moment they rose out of the beach sand, as if born for the first time.

That first generation of reincarnated settlers could understand English, and, it turned out, any human language, but could not speak; the mutation process they had undergone had altered their mouths and vocal chords.

Lloyd, who had been raised with the understanding that he would one day enter the Minutemen and interact with Mormons, had studied their clicking sounds almost since his birth, and could understand them fluently, though he was embarrassed to try to use the sounds himself. As they could understand his English, though, translation was not a problem between them. Imogen found their conversations amusing. They reminded her of the Star Wars movies, where Han Solo spoke in English and Chewbacca in his garbly roars. At the time she saw the movies, it had seemed silly, but she supposed in a world with large, multi-purpose brains and small, limited-function mouths, it made sense.

"In California," she said, "Mormons are considered an urban legend. And our version of them isn't like this at all. In the legend, they're savages – cannibals with zark teeth. And…"

She told him Henry's story about Utah crucifixions.

"Lies," Lloyd laughed, chucking her affectionately on the arm. "Made up by lying liars, but, you know, it's for the best. They're an extremely private people, and for some reason, they fear humans. At least strangers. They're used to me."

Ha. Imogen suspected, though she didn't say it, that the Mormons accepted Lloyd because the crater people, bald, shiny, enormous, and glowing, appeared at least as inhuman as the Mormons.

"Why is it strange for them to fear humans? Historically, we're not great at accommodating new species."

"It's strange because, at least in a fair fight, they can tear a human's head off like it's made of cheese. Oh… Sorry. It doesn't have to be a head. Legs, arms. I'm sure it wasn't them who killed your master, Dusty. Should have watched my mouth."

The slip-up didn't upset Imogen; she didn't think Mormons were the ones who had killed Leon. She found herself gently laughing at the general, whom she had never before seen make a mistake in decorum, and in fact it made her like him more than ever.

"The legends have some basis in reality," Lloyd said. "Not in describing the Mormons' appearance, obviously, and I suspect that's because anybody who has picked a fight with one hasn't lived long enough to bring home an accurate description. They never lost their religion, you know. To them, Xalt Lake City is the promised land, and they're the sacred, chosen people of God. Not hard to see why they'd feel that way, is it?"

Observing the angelic, otherworldly people, Imogen had to agree.

She couldn't imagine them killing anyone; they were so stoic and calm. Lloyd assured her they were deadly, though they didn't enjoy killing.

"Outsourced it," he said smugly, "To us, the Arizonans, in exchange for an alliance – a troop-share, if we ever need it. Since the Californians are rebelling, we need it now."

This was a surprise. "I thought Arizona's troops were the strongest in the country," she said. "Arpaio and the tent city soldiers…"

"We're weaker than we bluff," said Lloyd frankly. "I'm telling you this only because I trust you not to run back to California. You're on our side, now, kid, aren't you?"

Imogen nodded, and found to her surprise she didn't care at all what happened to California. She'd never been in favor of being forced to pay tribute to the Arizonans, and if she'd become queen, she might very well have been the one to stop the payments, but since it had been Cymbeline and Bianca's decision, she wouldn't be upset if it ended badly for them.

They were probably the ones who had ordered Leon's death. Bounty hunters. Vicious after a long search, but unwilling to defile the body of California's princess, they'd instead turned all their anger on poor Leon.

Lloyd wasn't running a charity, and Imogen's responsibilities as his assistant began that day. She was grateful for them; they were physically challenging and constant, and helped keep her mind off Leon, and his horrifying end.

She was put to work in the morning cleaning Lloyd's extensive collection of shields and armor, all of which had suffered during his quest across the flats. After it had all been polished, she was told to shellac them in laser-repellant, and set them to dry. In addition, she was to be in charge of carrying all his meals from the mess to his tent, relaying – and filtering – messages, maintaining his uniform, and being whatever sort of gofer he needed. All day, she scurried around the camp, between huddled groups of dirty, ordinary minutemen and the statuesque Mormons, who, when not on the move, stood by themselves, never looking at each other, rarely making noise.

Which was good, because the squawking bird sounds didn't sound right coming from their beautiful faces.

They did watch Imogen closely, staring down as she passed, and sometimes even smiling. Imogen was sure they knew her secret. _Secrets_. They probably had enhanced senses, maybe even telepathy. They hadn't ratted her out to Lloyd, though. If they could see she had once been California's princess, they could also see she had no intention of betraying her new boss.

The troops were marching southwest. The stand would take place at the Grand Chasm in three days' time.

As a boss, Lloyd was, she found, brisk, even snappy, though he never raised his voice. He didn't expect her to know how to do new tasks, but once he taught her, he did expect her to remember. None of the challenges put in front of her were beyond her capabilities, and she loved her newfound sense of usefulness.

As a friend, Lloyd was not talkative, but at the end of each day, upon dismissing her – not that she went far; her bed was at the foot of his – he wrapped her in a solid hug.

"Well done, boy," he would say. "We'll make a man of you yet."

It was interesting to her that, besides herself, General Lloyd didn't seem to have any personal friends among the men. He spent a lot of time in his tent, looking at geographic contour maps, or writing coded letters, and often he walked among the troops and exchanged manly nods with the soldiers – all of which, Imogen noted, were male; Arizona wasn't as progressive as California in its drafting policies – but other than to state problems or ask practical questions, the soldiers, and even fellow-officers, never talked to Lloyd. Imogen couldn't think why that would be. With her, he was friendly and relaxed. He knew elephant jokes, and a few absurdly filthy one-liners that made her spit out her coffee more than once.

Over time, she thought it might be because, somehow, he projected an air of sadness. Though he was willing to tell jokes and chuckle, and to smile kindly, he always had a serious, and slightly distant, look in his eyes, as if he were thinking about a lost loved one or happier times.

It made him hard to approach casually.

"What's wrong, General?" she asked one day, as they approached the California border.

"Nothing more or less than usual, Dusty," he said. They were on his horse, with Imogen riding behind him. His massive back, which blocked out Imogen's view of the landscape in front of them, was rock-hard – more so than usual. It was tight with tension.

Imogen leaned affectionately against the back, pulling the general into a hug. Lloyd didn't react at first, but, after a few seconds, slouched into the hug and let out a long, shivering breath.

"Tomorrow we're probably going to die, kid," he said. "Battle. Better than the cleanse, I suppose. Try to sleep sitting up if you can; you'll need the rest."

Dutiful as ever, or as dutiful as ever for "Dusty," since Imogen didn't have a dutiful hair on her head – she flattened herself against the general's wall-like, warm body and closed her eyes. Despite his threat about tomorrow, Imogen felt safe, and was only distantly troubled by the sense that every time she let herself get comfortable, any time she showed vulnerability, the vicious people around her swooped in like condors, pecking at her exposed bits and leaving her to try to stuff her guts back inside her skin time after time.


	31. Paying Debts

Elena gave birth to a shrieking, hardy, perfect baby boy.

Not perfect in the sense of _perfectly human_. The polluted waste air, which Elena had been breathing for most of her life, meant that in most of the Midwest kingdoms, mutated babies were the norm rather than the exception. Extra eyes and fingers, and various fractions of protruding conjoined twins, were par for the course in the land surrounding the Grand Chasm.

And their precious baby had mutations.

But they were, in Henry's humble opinion, freaking awesome.

The kid had two bony protrusions just above his temples.

Horns. They were little horns.

And, at the base of his spine, another long protrusion, which moved. A more-than-vestigial tail. A prehensile tail.

Parents in the civilized kingdoms would have been horrified.

Henry thought his devil-baby was the coolest kid in the history of the world.

They'd intended to name him Dusty.

"More like a dust devil," Momma had said, when they finally sat down to make it official by writing the name in the family Bible – a Bible which Henry had purchased specifically for the purpose of putting a family tree in the front pages, as was tradition in most of the Fifty Kingdoms.

And Elena said, "A dust devil! You're gonna be a Tasmanian devil, aren't you, baby boy? We should call you Taz."

And Taz it was. In a way, it was still a tribute to young, sweet, dead Dusty. And after learning their baby's feisty, noisy, angry personality, they all thought it best that he not be Dusty's exact namesake. Dusty was a calm name, a name for someone smiling on a front porch on a sunny afternoon. Taz was going to be a troublemaker.

If Henry, small and stocky, with his bent leg, could intimidate customers, Taz, with horns and big healthy limbs, was going to rule the countryside like a demonic despot.

Still, Henry couldn't be quite happy with his new family, and not just because it was missing Dusty. After allowing Elena and Momma a full twenty-four hours of glowing pride in the new arrival, he sat them all down at the kitchen table.

"You remember, the day Dusty died, we had the Minuteman regiment in here," he said gravely.

They did.

"They wanted more than supplies, you know."

"Thought they stayed a long time," Elena said. "But figured it was just time seeming to stretch out while this dust devil scrambled my insides."

Henry stretched his arm across the table and let the women see a long piece of e-paper. It bore the Arizona state seal, Henry's signature, and a fingerprint, along with a simply-stated contract made of two columns of bullet-point obligations for either party.

"You remember, also, how we got the money to start this shop."

"Oh, Henry," said Momma, because she _certainly_ remembered. She hadn't wanted him to do it, and they'd had their first and only real fight over it.

At the time, Arizona, which was rich in resources and low in population, had been offering a fantastic deal to young men of draft age in its border states:

Free money, in amounts varying with how many years you were willing to commit, simply, to _be available_ for drafting into Arizona's armies in the event of a multi-kingdom (as opposed to civil) war. There was no guarantee that a man who took the money would ever have to serve, and after a given term, if the obligation went unclaimed, it expired, but the man could keep the payment.

Henry had committed to be available for the Arizona draft for ten years, in exchange for a lump sum of thirty thousand dollars.

Momma had feared it was simply a trick; that the instant he signed the contract, Henry would be shipped down to Tucson to be starved and mentally broken in one of Joe Arpaio's Spartan training camps.

But seven years had gone by, and not a peep from the Grand Chasm state.

Occasionally, news came, rumors that Arizona was engaged in a foreign war; there was an ever-igniting border problem with New Mexico concerning rights over Route 66, the only cross-kingdom highway in the fifty kingdoms, and an invaluable commodity. Still, those problems were weeks of travel away from the Grahams, and though extra soldiers might have been appreciated, Henry always figured they thought it would be costlier to transport him to the fight than to be down one man.

Now, the fight was with California. It was close; Californians, anticipating, had crossed into Nevada, and would be at the northern Arizona border.

And Henry's debt was being called in.

He was to report to Colorado City within forty-eight hours.

"You don't have to go, baby," said Momma. "We'll run again."

"_Momma!_ How can you say that?" This came, not from Henry, but from Elena. At the sight of the letter, she'd leapt up from her seat and practically crawled in Henry's lap, kissing his face, but Henry had known she'd let him go. Her pride and honesty were at least as great as her love for him, and were equal to his own.

"I built this place, Momma," said Henry, "And made it the only honest place between San Diego and the Great Xalt Lake. Men know they can trust me, that I won't cheat them, and it's taken time, but they don't try to cheat me no more. You know why? 'Cause I keep my word. That startup money wasn't me cheatin' anybody. Was an honest deal. I'm happy to keep my word, except… Except for this guy."

He placed a hand over his son's head; the baby's entire skull fit inside his palm. Such a little guy, to be left without a dad, if the worst should happen.

"Question is," said Henry, "Are y'all gonna come with me?"

"Henry," said Momma, "Don't you start. You got a newborn baby. Elena can't be walkin' in the army entourage with a newborn baby."

Since there were no laws forbidding it, and soldiers typically traveled no faster than footspeed, they were often trailed by a pack of wives, children and merchants.

Who, as often as not, died in higher percentages, and more horrible ways, than the soldiers.

Still, Elena, on Henry's lap, was silent as she rocked, and Henry knew she was considering.

"Not like I'm hurt," she said. "Childbirth ain't nothin'. I could be out choppin' wood for y'all."

"Or," said Henry, "You could be running the shop here. If you don't, we'll have to shut the graphene covers and let it wait. No problem if we're gone a week or two, and that's how quick the Arizonans swear the fight's gonna be. But we leave it months, years, we'll come back with the stock rotten, deliveries missed, customers telling the land the shop's gone… we'll go out of business."

"Shut it, H," said Elena. "I'll stay. You come home in a few weeks. I ain't even worried about you. You're as tough as they come."

This was true, but it was also true that Henry's bad leg didn't like marching. The biggest challenge for him would be making it to the battle at all.

He packed, and was off before dawn, with the women and Taz waving goodbye from the lit-up rectangle marking the door of the only home he'd ever known.

He didn't even know what the war was about.

* * *

The Minutemen weren't the only ones recruiting. In Las Vegas, a ragged, thin, haunted Leon Sands stood in front of a desk that had been set up in the middle of the Bellagio floor. Bless the Californians, they knew how to advertise. The sign at the desk said, "Lost all your money? And your self-respect? Get them back: Join the California Army." And another: "Tell your wife you're going to earn the respectable living she's always wanted." And a third: "Tell your husband you're going to earn the respectable living he's…"

Leon had waited in line behind a file of strippers, bear-shaped men, mutants, and hollowed-out monsters like himself. People who had come to Vegas for an easy fortune, failed, and were looking for another. Joining the California army was really only another form of gambling.

Merit didn't determine who survived battles, not anymore. Not with superweapons and mutants, blinding gas clouds, accidents of weather, a hundred other factors. Or so the rumors went. Leon, waiting his turn, patiently listened to the new recruits telling these things to each other. Telling their neighbor it didn't matter that he had only one arm, or that he'd never thrown a punch in his life, or that the most the skinny girl in pasties knew about fighting was the time her boyfriend knocked her into a dresser and the corner chipped her skull.

Leon knew better. He'd been in the Deviant wars, and the reason he had survived, and others hadn't, was because of his hand-to-hand combat skills and readiness to pull and use any available weapon. He'd met recruits like these Vegas losers in the ranks. They'd died. All of them.

Not that Leon was exactly hoping to survive the coming battle.

Two petty officers sat behind the table, and sized him up doubtfully.

"Name?"

"Jack Kerouac."

A reckless joke, an unnecessary risk to take, but the officers didn't even notice it. Just asked him how to spell "Kerouac."

No, Leon didn't have ID, medical history, etc., etc., etc.

They didn't insist. Leon had known they wouldn't. They weren't recruiting these people to put them into active service. They were recruiting the first wave. Cannon-fodder. After the foreigners had been sent in to take the brunt of the Minutemen's attack, the real battle would begin.

It pleased Leon to think of dying that way. In the service of his country. And he'd fill a pit as well as better, if these idiots would only let him.

"Mr. Kerouac," said one recruiter, her eyes widening as Leon swayed, "Are you suffering from any communicable diseases? You'll be scanned in Basic, and if you lie to us now, you'll be dishonorably discharged, and receive no salary."

Communicable diseases. Ha. Yes, Leon, who could see a fraction of his reflection in the mirrored edge of the desk, was well aware he looked like an undiagnosed leper. He was dehydrated, and couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or bathed. The other day, hunger had driven him to try to take a slice of pizza from a restaurant table he'd thought was abandoned, and he'd been thrashed in the street for it. The wounds hadn't healed, and he hadn't changed his clothes.

The triple-breasted Rockette behind him looked more fit for battle than he did.

It said a lot that the recruiters, who were Californian and must have seen his face all over the news a couple months ago, tattoo and all, didn't recognize him.

"Let him in, Gill," said the other recruiter, putting his signature and three stamps on Leon's application form before his friend could advise him against it. "He's got all his limbs. Head on back, kid, they'll get you a uniform."

They weren't messing around. Behind the casino, recruits were outfitted, fed, watered, and, before nightfall, marching. The battle was coming too soon to worry about formalities.

Leon couldn't wait for it. To feel the sting of a laser, or the burn of acid, and finally, finally get some sleep. As it was, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Imogen's dead, pale body. Hector's accusing eyes.

Guilt was drying him up like a raisin. His hand shook so hard he was at first unable to lift the weapon he was issued, and at night, in a large, metal-cloth tent with two hundred other new soldiers, he sat on his cot, staring at the darkness. Tears would have been streaming down his face if he'd had any left to shed.

Once again, hours deep in the night, hating his existence, he considered suicide.

But, damn that Californian upbringing, he couldn't do it. He hadn't feared Hell before his banishment.

Now that he knew how bad life could get, he was unwilling to risk it getting worse.

All he wanted was a chance to tell Imogen how sorry he was.

Death would be worth it. And he'd find death, one way or another.


	32. Jack's Conscience

Six weeks now. This was the longest Anahuac Jack had ever stayed in one place.

Living in Vegas, though, was almost the same as traveling, insomuch as you could see something new every day, and there were so many people rotating through that even a cowboy as conspicuous as himself could rob passersby in safe anonymity.

Only one person had recognized him so far, and it was a friend from more than ten years ago.

He was in the back parlor of her Oracle shop now.

Had no damn right to be there, of course, as she kept reminding him… in between bouts of kissing and groping.

She'd slapped him three times and made him breakfast.

Women.

The animals filled the shop. The land zark hung from the ceiling, the tiger was slouched over a couch, the smaller animals sat filling shelves and desktops, knocking candles and plastic gemstones everywhere.

"You son of a bitch," Apolla whispered. Jack could hear her pretty well because she was right by his head, sticking her tongue in his ear between words. "What've you done to them? They look like they've been through a war."

Indeed they did. They looked, in fact, worse than they had the day they'd been caught in the storm after the rising sneak. Jack hadn't even considered putting on a show for weeks; he'd been struggling to keep the animals alive. The Gila monster wouldn't eat; the tiger's fur was falling out; Henrietta was droopy and withered, and the hummingbird spent most of its time resting on the peacock's dull, greasy back.

"I know what this means," said Apolla, planting a microwaved tray of tater tots in front of Jack. She had many gifts, and a beautiful mothering instinct – that was why he'd come to her, for good old-fashioned babying – but not the culinary skills to back it up. Over the course of their conversation, three more microwave plates appeared, placed in front of the most prominent animals. The zark ate his spaghetti and meatballs, corn, and brownie, but the remaining menagerie members were less impressed.

"I know what's goin' on here, Jack," Apolla said. "They only get like this when you're depressed. You oughtta remove those implants. Or at least close your channels. It's abuse."

"I can't close the channels fully anymore, something's wrong with 'em. They haven't worked right since I took a champagne bottle to the face. And don't you accuse _me_ of abuse, carnivore," Jack said, smacking Apolla softly on the butt. The woman turned, curling a lip, but her expression softened immediately at the sight of Jack's face. He liked to think it was because he was handsome, and on another day that would have been the explanation, but today he only looked pathetic.

He'd never felt like this before – constantly on the edge of tears, hopeless, uninterested in waking up, most mornings. Logically, he knew these were the symptoms of clinical depression, but Jack had always thought of depression – still _did _think of it – as a made-up disease, a popular excuse for weakness.

Apolla had shed her oracle gear, the layers and layers of silk and gossamer, revealing a body of trim curves. Her hair was unwrapped, and it fell over both of them, thick dark curls wrapping themselves around Jack's fingers like the clutching legs of spiders. He wanted to go to sleep in it.

"Jack," she said, and planted a kiss on each of his eyebrows, "You look like you fell off Sad Mountain and hit every rock on the way down. Tell me what happened, not that you deserve comfort, after what you did to me, but tell me anyway. This got anything to do with that surfer boy?"

Jack stiffened.

"Oh, yeah, I know. Oracle."

"He came to ask you about me, that's how you know."

"And I told him all about you."

"Jesus," said Jack, "No wonder he came out of here convinced I slept with Imogen, if he had your side of the story."

Just like that, Apolla popped off his lap, and was storming. Hell of a woman. This was why he came, and also why he had stayed away so long. Watching her emotions swing like a tire on a tree was exhausting.

"Is this guilt, Jackie-boy?" she cried. "You weren't ever good at guilt when I knew you! Weren't good at it when I walked in on your party, and bawled my eyes out, and you let me go out the door and never said another word for ten damn years. Where was your guilt for me?"

"Forgive my honesty, darlin'," Jack drawled, "But you're no Leon Sands."

He'd anticipated an argument for that barb, but didn't get one. Apolla only smiled, and for a second, she was back in her oracle character again, looking old and wise and understanding.

"Boy, ain't that the truth," she said, sinking into the cushioned stool where she ordinarily did her Tarot readings. "I saw he was something special when he came in here. Face like a light bulb. Tell me what you did to him, Jack, that's got you upset, and we'll see if we can't fix it."

Jack told her. It was the longest speech he'd given to a single human in years, made longer by Apolla's constant interruptions and commentary.

"Shut your moustache, ain't no such thing as an Odysseus helmet, you damn fool!"

"Drinking champagne alone with a man like you, she'd a deserved whatever she got!"

"Navel rings are for whores without the courage to get a tramp stamp."

"They shoulda thrown you in jail, you worthless piece of – "

And so on. It was only noises; she wanted to hear his story to the end, so she could comfort him, and for Apolla, these comments were the equivalent of a saner person's "oh"s and "really"s.

She quieted down at last once Jack got to the part that was eating him up – Imogen's death. Or rather, Leon's reaction to it.

"Apolla," he said, wrapping his large hands around her ribcage, and burying his head in her chest, "Swear to god, I saw that kid's soul jump out of his body. If he's not dead already, he will be soon."

"Will it be worth it?" Apolla asked. "I mean, the money. The helmet work? Can you sell it?"

Jack's hat was about to get knocked to the ground; Apolla caught it and gently placed it on a nearby dummy head that was normally reserved for her wigs and turbans. She held it by the inside, so as not to get fingerprints on it, and Jack could have cried at the small, thoughtful gesture.

"It works," he said. "But I haven't tried to sell it. Can barely look at it."

"Give it back. You've got to tell that boy the truth, Jackie."

"Now, that, Apolla," Jack said, pulling back and managing his old sexy smolder, "That is why I don't come to you for advice. Give it back. A ten million dollar one of a kind machine. That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Anyway, it's too late for that. Girl's dead."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"I… honestly, I was hoping for some distraction sex."

Apolla flipped a bitch, and a few minutes later Jack left, laughing, his menagerie wearily trailing behind. Nobody on the strip minded them. Nobody noticed the mice climbing into purses.

Hey, a man had to feed his animals. He'd pay the money forward once he got his head on straight and sold the Odysseus helmet. Start a charity, give away free cowboy hats, something. Really, though, Jack felt no guilt about the thieving. Never had.

Until Leon and his beautiful, dead princess.

Vegas wasn't big enough to hide in. Circling the Bellagio, Jack saw a line of skeevy men and women being loaded into the back of a California truck tank.

Leon was among them. He walked looking at his boots, his face hollowed out and ghoulish.

Jack had been right. The kid was dying.

He watched the kid pause at the tent threshold while some toady read his specs. Sands, who had once had a full face and thick head of blonde hair, now had sunken eyes, cheeks, and temples. His hair was disgusting.

A peck on his ankle startled Jack. It was Henrietta, staring up at him with her shiny, Indian teardrop eyes.

"What?" said Jack.

Peck.

The mental connection let him feel her emotions, but she didn't speak English, even in her head, so it was hard to quite tell what she wanted. All he felt was a strong pull in Leon's direction, and a strong wave of disapproval directed at himself.

"You want me to go after him?" he asked. "What about Apolla, huh? Ever think of her? I leave town, I break _her_ heart, you gonna hate me for that too?"

"Nobody hates you, Anahuac Jack," said Apolla from behind him. Jack whirled and found her there, all done up in her robes, twice as big as her naked self and ten times more intimidating. She was smoking a pipe, and opaque tendrils dribbled out of it, curling like her hair.

In that moment, if she had foretold the fall of the moons, he would have believed her; if she'd told him that, to prevent his death, he needed to bury a potato by night on the solstice, he'd have done it.

As it was, she only said, "You follow that boy, Jackie, and make sure he doesn't get hurt. That's your job now. Save his life. You've got a karma cloud hanging over your head, and everybody sees it but you; if you don't want it to rain, you save that boy. Bring him back. Give him hope. If you don't, Anahuac Jack, I will personally kill and eat every animal in your menagerie, starting with you. Got it, you stupid veggie coward?"

"Got it, ma'am."

Jack smiled. He wished he looked his best; wished he'd kept the goatee neatly shaved, wished he'd acquired a new steed, wished his clothes were as clean and dapper as he'd always liked to keep them, so that, tipping his hat and bowing, he would have been the picture of a dashing cad on the road to reformation.

As it was, he knew he only looked like a sad, weary man doing his job.

The tank wandered slowly into the night, and Jack, having nowhere else to go, followed it. The wagon, full of supplies, trailed behind him. Behind that, the animals.

Not like he had anything better to do.


	33. The Battle Begins

The Californians were to be led by the king. An idiotic idea. Long gone were the days of kings riding into battle beside their countrymen, whose main and biggest job, according to their oaths as subjects of the crown, was to protect the king from just this type of danger. In theory, the citizens of California would lie down in a line millions thick, only to be slaughtered one by one, if by doing so they could slow an attack aimed at their king.

But here Cymbeline was, with the first wave. The nasty, rasty band of meat shields who weren't even citizens, recruited specifically for the purpose of dying horribly – of being battlefield guinea pigs, testing the type and effectiveness of the Minutemen's weapons.

The chosen battleground was the Grand Chasm, the site of California's terrible defeat, thirty years ago, at the hands of the Minutemen. A risky choice. Could bring down morale during the battle. But a victory here would more than win Cali's freedom from tribute; it would rewrite history, reclaim the horrifying visions conjured by the word _Chasm_ in the minds of all Californians, turn them to victory and pride.

As it currently stood, the words _Grand Chasm_ evoked in the mind of every Californian swirling, grainy images taken from helmet-cams of handsome young Californians screaming, dangled over the edge of the famous cliffs.

The fall wasn't the frightening part. If the impact killed you, you'd consider yourself lucky.

For rolling through the Chasm, calm as water, pretty as a mirror, ran the Quicksilver River - a slow-moving, but deadly, flow of superheated mercury.

It was no wonder that, having lost the battle thirty years ago, the Californians had so readily agreed to the Minutemen's terms. Tribute had seemed an entirely reasonable price to pay to stop the POW executions, which had been recorded. The recordings were carried to California, and broadcast, one by one. Each hour, a California militiaman or woman had a wire attached to their ankle and was slowly lowered hundreds of feet toward the beautiful, silvery lava, howling in terror the whole way.

The lucky ones died, or at least fell unconscious, from the fumes. The unlucky ones caught fire ten or twenty feet above the river surface. The unluckiest were still conscious as their scalps skimmed the mercury.

Depending on the mood of the executioners, the soldier might be dropped in at the last second, or they might be dipped, in and out, and inch at a time, until, having only half a skull left, they at last stopped kicking.

The defeat had been total; the images of the executions had kept Californian spirits downtrodden for decades.

Hell, they'd kept the spirits of the whole continent down. Many of the Nevada recruits, upon seeing the battle destination, had fled, choosing immediate execution for desertion to the risk of death by boiling in mercury.

Cymbeline, though high up and a fair target, was somewhat protected; his tank was large, and he sat on top of it in a mobile throne, elevated above the troops in a Pope-box of bulletproof, laserproof glass, surveying the land. Close enough for Leon to see.

Leon wondered what had caused the stupid decision. Whether it had been the queen's idea. She'd gotten rid of Leon and Imogen well enough; did she now intend to get rid of the king?

John, his old drinking buddy, the one who had taken him to the oracle, had signed up for the California army too, it turned out, and he, being more interested than Leon, had gotten a few details that proved interesting.

Cymbeline had named a successor, and it wasn't one of the schemas, as per tradition. No, it was Travis Alameda – the man who _should_ have been out here leading the defense, but who was mysteriously gone.

Rumor had it he'd been sent on a personal mission for the king, either to assassinate Leon Sands, or to retrieve Princess Imogen.

McGowan. Leon's fingers curled at the thought. How he'd like to wring the neck of that giant, stupid, treasonous asshole.

Yes, Bianca might well have planned this. Planned to have the king die in battle, and marry Travis McGowan herself. Her hatred for Cymbeline was well-known.

Then again, the king wasn't a total idiot, nor a coward. The fact that he was here showed well enough that he had a spine. Leon doubted he could have been convinced to come against his will, not to a spot so dangerous as the Grand Chasm, with its lava that flowed like water, shone like mercury, killed by its mere proximity. The king knew what battle these days entailed. Vicious, screaming deaths, chunks ripped from flesh by the suction cups of tentacled monsters, melting, disintegrating, soldiers fusing into each other and their steeds…

Maybe the king, like himself, had heard of Imogen's terrible end, and secretly wanted to die.

Maybe he hoped it would win him back some of the honor he'd lost by his tyrannical behavior towards his daughter, and his simpering foolishness towards his wife.

Though he was only a hundred or so feet from the king, Leon didn't fear recognition. Cymbeline had a distant look in his eyes, sad and contemplative. The crown, which had always sat crooked and silly-looking on his brow, seemed straighter out here, and the combat uniform did him good. The king in court clothes had always looked a bit like a kid in a Halloween costume.

He was still small and weak-looking, but by the setting sun, in the lava's glow, the shadows across his face had the slightest tint of nobility in them.

A crackling mist had descended, destroying long-range vision and sensors; the waiting armies, who had been assembled in loose formation and told to load their weapons, but given no further orders, had no idea if the enemy was states or mere miles away.

A light rain began to fall.

The troops surged as one in horror, minus Leon, who stood waiting for the burn… that didn't come.

Amazing. In Arizona, it was acid rain nine times out of ten.

But this, this was cooling, healing, plain, old-fashioned water.

Laughter spread among the ranks now, as quickly as terror had.

"If it _had_ been acid rain," John remarked, shaking his head like a dog, "Note that we'd be melted by now, and the officers didn't move to hand out umbrellas, did they? My god, why'd they bring us? Being willing to risk your first wave is one thing; being _eager_ for them to die's another."

"Maybe they're hoping to cover the lava flow in bodies," said Leon, "To make the fighting safer for California citizens."

At his vantage point, high above the troops, it was the king himself who saw the first flash of light off the enemy's armor. He who, personally, gave the signal for helmets and faceplates to be lowered, weapons raised.

There was a limited supply of lacquer-spray that could protect from first-wave acid attacks and indirect laser-fire. It was dispensed on several units. Not Leon's.

Leon's unit were barely dressed. He'd worn a genuine CAA uniform every day for the last three years; he'd grown accustomed to its weight, to the heavy, stiff canvas so thick it could deflect a blade, hold water, repel fire.

The material he wore now, he could rip with a powerful flex of his shoulders, if he chose. It wrinkled so badly, he could almost believe it was cotton, though surely even Bianca wouldn't be so cheap as to put soldiers near the Grand Chasm, with all its chemical, heat, and environmental hazards, in so flimsy and flammable a material.

His helmet had been painted to look like aluminum, but it was only plastic – a repurposed construction worker's hard hat. Would it even slow a bullet down?

Just as well. Real helmets could protect better men than him.

He felt sorry for John, though, chubby old John, rifle in hand, extended, staring through the useless sight, holding his breath.

The fog thickened. Still only water, thank god, but the blindness was awful.

Though Leon had been in night battles, he'd never felt so blind. At night, a flashlight pointed in front of you could reveal the enemy in time to see the whites of his eyes. But this fog was so thick that even the tank searchlights, positioned behind the troops, couldn't burn a hole in it. Leon's world reduced to a pale, bluish wall cutting his unit off from the rest of the army. Then it shrank further, until it was only himself, John, and the formers stripper to his left. Then it was just him.

The fog blocked sound as well as sight. Silence descended, almost immediately followed by filler audio hallucinations. A sound like rushing wind passed through Leon's ears, though there wasn't the slightest breeze; he felt as if he stood inside a shell, smooth-walled, protected from the pitying, judgmental sight of the world, of his country, of Imogen's wide-eyed, gasping ghost. A pleasant, peaceful minute passed for him, though around him, he knew, his fellow-soldiers were enduring the most excruciating suspense of their lives.

Then, there was a sensation that reminded Leon of the rising sneak – a light emptiness; the air thinned, making it briefly difficult to breathe, and the fog cleared, a few feet at a time.

The reason flapped above their heads on lazy wings. The Air Force had arrived, mounted on California Condors, selectively bred in captivity to be both as obedient and as large as they came. Each hideous, wrinkly, bald, gobble-necked beast had a wingspan wide as a house.

They were assisted in hovering by wide, horizontal-rotor engines with fans pointing towards the earth, and it was these that blew the fog away, bit by bit…

And eventually revealed the enemy, across the Chasm, a mile away, and marching boldly forward.

That is, _some_ were marching.

Some glided.

The Californians went silent at the sight of the beautiful, carved, candy-colored people who were the first line of the Minuteman attack. Leon had, during his training, been shown pictures of many of North America's extremely varied armies. He could identify different grades of Louisiana swamp monsters by sight, and knew the military seals and uniforms of all fifty kingdoms. Still, he was unable to identify this group.

They looked like angels.

Yet their expressions, cold and hard, were not angelic, and Leon's stomach muscles clenched. Around him, fingers tightened on triggers.

One gun went off early, but the mist had eaten into the cheap workings; the rifle, which was supposed to fire a hard spray of single-function nanobots that, on impact, latched onto their victims like ticks and delivered an inescapable, seconds-long, crippling shock, sputtered. Instead of the spray, it released a half-hearted splurt, revealing that the bots had congealed into each other. The slumping mush of gummy liquid from the misfired weapon sat on the ground like a dollop of whipped cream, and, with a whining pop, electrocuted itself into dust.

Leon realized his own weapon would probably do the same. He detached the bayonet/dagger from the barrel and calmly let the rest of the weapon clatter to the ground. Some of his companions followed suit. Others, still hopeful, and unsure whose lead to follow, only clutched their weapons tighter.

The angels weren't in range of the Calfornians when they stopped silently; their own Minuteman allies, marching behind, saw no signal, and some of them ran into the angels' backs.

Leon noted with some alarm that the angels were not pushed forward by the crush of men behind them. They stood solid as trees. That meant they were strong. They'd be formidable in hand to hand combat, especially if they had the speed to back up their muscle, and Leon suspected they did.

What _were_ they?

Not that he was afraid for himself. God, how he'd welcome death. But he vaguely rooted for California still; it was his home, and a few months of, he now saw, entirely justified banishment for entirely unjustified treachery had made him respect his country more, not less. Respect its laws, its organization, its wisdom in knowing that a man like him shouldn't have been allowed near its princess, let alone allowed to marry her.

Also, he was worried for the ragged band surrounding him, whom he couldn't help but work up a touch of affection for, having traveled two days with them and listened to the pathetic stories they told at night, in the huge dark tents. And their fear now made him love them.

None of them wanted to die, because none of them, for all their terrible, mistake-ridden pasts, had committed a crime like his.

In the middle of the line of angels was an enormous, bald, glowing man on an equally large horse.

The man led the horse, step by slow step, several hundred feet forward, until he was nearly at the Chasm's edge. A tall, dark-haired boy in light armor trotted on foot beside them, bearing the sunset flag of Arizona.

The horse balked at the sight of the mercury, and the boy reached out and caught its reins. He pulled the horse's enormous head to his and, as if he didn't have an audience thousands strong ahead of and behind him, petted the horse, kissed its ears, combed its hair with his fingers, and mumbled comforting nonsense sounds into its ears.

The general said something to the boy, who gripped the flag harder and made sure it stood straight – it had been about to fall – but didn't stop comforting the horse. He burbled his lips against the horse's hard, massive cheek, looking for all the world like a teenage girl playing with her pet pony.

For a moment, Leon, who had been physically uncomfortable all over for days now, was aware that the soreness in his muscles had lifted, and then he realized why: He was grinning and chuckling. It was his natural state, and his body jumped into its old familiar position easily, and the relief in his muscles was as good as if he'd stood up after sitting cross-legged so long his legs were threatening to go numb.

Guilt swamped him instantly, of course. He shouldn't be smiling or laughing; he hadn't the right.

So he forced his frown back down and listened to the amplified voice of the general on the horse. Words he'd heard, more or less, at the beginning of a dozen battles. Fill-in-the-blanks with only the names and places changed.

This was, apparently, General Lloyd of the Minutemen.

Would the Californians like to reconsider paying tribute? The Minutemen had twenty thousand troops and reinforcements on the way. Reinforcements from Joe Arpaio, trained in the Tent Cities.

Cymbeline spoke for the Californians, and said just what he should. In flowery language, no, thanks, we're good. The tent city savages California had heard so much about, he was convinced, were no more real than the Arizonans' "protection" or the need for tribute to be paid any longer. California was a sovereign state, and it had vehicles, an air force, and nearly thirty thousand troops of its own, and more prepared to take their place, should every one of them fall, etc., etc.

Leon was getting eager for the battle to start; he expected General Lloyd to turn around, since he had his answer, but the meteor crater giant had one final card to play.

"The last time I saw you, King," he said, "Was in court, and you were a skeptic then as well. You doubted the existence of one of the threats Arizona has so long kept from you. Here is your evidence, standing in my front lines. The Mormons, King, here to show their strength. They've been eager for the opportunity, but their alliance with us has prevented it. No more."

He turned his horse, which until now had been almost asleep, nuzzling the neck of the General's boy-assistant.

He raised his hand and let it drop. Some sort of attack signal. A few more rifles spurted out useless gobs of nanobot slime.

And the angels, the Mormons, reacted, stiffening, then joining hands down the line. (But they couldn't really be Mormons, could they? It didn't gel with the picture Leon had had his whole life of the mythical, savage sasquatch-like beings. It was as if aliens had landed, and instead of being green men with large heads and black almond-shaped eyes, they'd stepped out of their spaceships looking like giraffes.)

There were only about two hundred of them, and in their clean white robes, they looked like a frosting border on the filthy bulk of Minutemen. Frosting dotted with roses in assorted pastels: yellow, blue, pink, lavender. And now they were holding hands – in three groups, Leon noted. They shouldn't have been threatening at all.

Yet, as one, their gently joined hands clasped, as if an electrical current were racing through them; their biceps bulged, veins stood out, and their eyes shut. They appeared to be in pain.

Above their heads, three warped spots appeared in the air. One in the center of each hand-holding line.

The warped spots grew and solidified until each was perhaps ten feet across, and looked like a mirror in the air. For a dizzying moment, Leon thought they were summoning mercury lava from the Chasm beneath them.

The reality didn't turn out to be much better.

With a humming noise, the large, warped phenomena began spinning, spinning like plates on an axis, until they appeared as whole, shining orbs, and then they leapt forward.

Into the Californians' airspace, clearing the Chasm quick as a thought.

And the spinning, silvery plates hit three condors, and ate them up like propeller blades, pilots, engines, and all.

Gore splattered over the troops; the remaining condor riders, in their hundreds, were suddenly dealing with rearing, screaming, panicking birds, and there were a dozen more crashes in a matter of seconds.

Even Leon couldn't help crying out at the first impact of the silver ball of death; one of the condors was only half-sucked into the ball at first, and had time to let out a terrible scream, like a dog under a car tires; a second later, its liver, the size of a medicine ball, had splattered to the ground beside Leon. A part of its skull was thrown so far and hard that it took a standing soldier's head off.

The roar of fear that rose through the new recruits was nearly overpowering; Leon was one of the only few who kept formation; the rest turned, panicky, looking for an order to retreat. Some, on the outer lines, ran, and the first order given by Cymbeline in the second battle of the Grand Chasm was for their deaths. A few condor riders kept control, and the runners found themselves sniped by good old-fashioned lead bullets.

It took a full thirty seconds for order to be regained, but regained it was.

General Lloyd still stood on the Chasm border, watching patiently. The boy beside him was slack-jawed. He'd obviously never seen the Mormons in action before, and was as frightened as his enemies were.

There was that grin again, trying to itch its way onto Leon's face. He hoped the boy, who was obviously new to the war game, survived the battle. Looked like he would; looked like the Arizonans were going to crush Leon's side soundly and quickly, and maybe crush them two or three times more just in case, the way one repeatedly stomps a cockroach that doesn't look quite dead _enough._

Oh, well.

"Once more, great king," bellowed Lloyd, "I ask you: reconsider. Reaffirm the oath your grandfather took, here on this field, and your subjects will thank you for your wisdom. They will not thank you, king, if you send this rabble – " he indicated the front lines, and Leon couldn't disagree with his assessment of them, so ratty and frightened they looked – "into the mercury, begging for mercy."

All eyes were now on the king. He stood, his face a patchwork of lines and shadows, and Leon could have given the order himself, it was written so clearly in Cymbeline's eyes.

"Send in the first wave," said the king. His voice was low, quiet, and calm, but it rumbled across the battlefield, amplified by speakers peppered across the acres of soldier-covered land.

The colonel in charge of Leon's unit extended a hand, flat, palm-down: The sign for attack. The unit had already received the battle plan, and Leon was more than prepared. He didn't notice that, besides himself, every soldier around him hesitated – that a look passed through the lines, a series of widened eyes and hard, drawn together eyebrows that said, _if we run, they can't shoot us all._

And they might have run. Might have mutinied, and might very well all have been shot, because Cymbeline had tanks that could take out a unit of soldiers, but the Californians' morale would have been ruined.

It was Leon, jumping to obey the order, who saved the California army from shame and chaos. He threw himself forward, eager to begin, and the pack, unsure of itself, was sucked in his wake.

They rushed the chasm, unhooking grapples from their belts, and Leon was the first to shoot his across the gap.

He was leaping off the cliff before the hook hit the other side.

But it did hit, and caught him, and then he was zipping over the river of lava, and he was the first to climb up on the other side – a lone soldier staring down an army of angels, giants, and good old-fashioned men with guns.

The impact into the cliff wall, and the climb over the edge, had badly damaged his hands; he wiped them on his chest, dimly aware that it must look like he was applying war-paint. Bandoliers of blood across his chest, because the bandoliers of bullets were reserved for the soldiers who were going to survive this fight.


	34. The Battle of the Grand Chasm, Part 1

Imogen had been in the room when Bianca first broached to Cymbeline her suggestion that, in testing the might of an army, it would be a good idea to use an expendable first-wave unit. She had suggested it be composed of foreigners, Nevadan gamblers or Orgegonian outlaws, perhaps. People with nothing to lose and everything to gain. They could be offered huge monetary awards for allowing themselves to be drafted, awards which wouldn't have to be paid if the soldiers didn't survive the battle.

Kind-hearted though she was, Imogen, listening at her father's side, had thought it sounded like a good idea. Honest enough; the soldiers in question couldn't help being aware of the risks they were signing up for. It hadn't seemed to her any crueler to risk the lives of foreigners than the lives of Californians, and after all, a first wave had to be run by _someone._

Still, seeing the plan put into action, and knowing that the men and women who crossed the chasm and rushed the Minuteman army, an army fronted by the powerful, immovable Mormon guard, she couldn't help being sickened with pity at the thought that these people had had no real choice in joining California's army. The promised reward was too great, and the lives they were leaving behind, too bleak, for them to refuse a chance to participate in this gruesome lottery. Hell, she knew that as well as anyone, and she'd only lived in the wastes a few months.

A tear came to her eye at the sight of the first brave soldier to cross the chasm. He leapt at almost the same time he fired his grappling hook, and both armies held their breaths, waiting to see if his weight would pull the line off-target before it had a chance to impale the opposite cliff-wall.

It didn't; he lived, and climbed out, and every weapon in the Arizona army leveled itself at him.

They didn't fire, not yet, because they were waiting for Imogen and General Lloyd to run back behind the front line.

Once they had, the counter-attack began, and Imogen had her first taste of battle.

The California army liked to arrange itself on the battlefield in organized, pretty formations. Footsoldiers here, cavalry here, tanks positioned at regular intervals, larger, distance weapons at the back. Straight lines, squares, something that could be easily diagrammed.

Not so with the Minutemen. They were an unorganized mass, a collection of men of all shapes and sizes, in varying levels of clothedness. Minutemen made their own armor, brought and modified their own weapons. Their training was mostly a matter of learning chants and patriotic yells, and only the most basic battlefield orders – attack, retreat, move north/south/east/west, fire, take cover.

So the first wave of Californians who rushed them had as good a chance of being vaporized as being shot; of being frozen as being electrocuted. The order, attack, was given, and the Minutemen rushed forward in a chaotic cloud of roaring, popping, zapping, banging, whistling, bristling weapons. Imogen was swept right along, with only a sidearm and a knife, and through the rising dust cloud she saw, within twenty seconds, enough horror to give her a lifetime of nightmares.

Ten feet away, a Californian soldier took a chestful of late-detonating explosive gel. She just had time to look down and register horror – to scramble at her golden uniform coat, trying to free herself of the heavy, sticky blob – and then it went, spraying her ribcage and one shoulder into a gory circle. The soldier lived a few seconds, seconds possibly as traumatizing to Imogen, the sole witness, as they were to her, and she fell over, clacking her jaw in a voiceless scream.

Whole sections of ground began to explode as cannons behind the lines started up. How they were aiming, Imogen had no idea; they seemed as likely to hit the Arizonans as the Californians.

Now the condors were joining the fight; a man to Imogen's left was swept off his horse, carried into the air by a talon hooked through his neck, kicking and bleeding.

His horse ran on. Into the Chasm. It was the first victim of the mercury lava that day, and Imogen never forgot its death-shriek. Nor the scent of its roasted flesh.

Around her, bodies were flying apart, and each death she saw was worse than the last. There was a huge Minuteman, a meteor crater giant even bigger than Lloyd, who would pick a Californian, stomp on his foot so he couldn't run away, then calmly, and none too quickly, pull his head off, sometimes with the spine still attached. Crowds ran from him, but once he picked out a target, that target, no matter how fast they ran or how hard they squealed, couldn't escape.

The Mormons had broken into shorter lines; each line pulled an energy ball into the air, though they were smaller than the ones used in the initial attack. The balls crossed the chasm, and were going to work on California's large weapons – the tanks, the catapults, the laser cannons.

Still, Imogen noted through the rising haze, they didn't seem to be doing as much damage as she would have predicted. It seemed that the energy balls were reduced in energy, as well as size, when they were created by smaller groups of Mormons.

And for all their strength, they couldn't stay in a single line. They weren't invincible, nor immovable.

She saw one Mormon die – a lavender-haired male. Ten Californians focused all their energy on him. They knocked him out of line with a nano-blaster, which gave him a good shock but didn't kill him. He rose, anger shining on his angelic face, and engaged them hand-to-hand… or rather, hand-to-knife, as he was unarmed and they weren't.

He took down half of them and injured two others, but finally, he fell; a tall soldier emptied a machine gun into his head.

The head wasn't blown off; Mormon bones, it seemed, were hard as granite; but even granite could be blown apart if shot repeatedly at close range, and once the brain was exposed, the Mormon let out a bit of birdsong and went down.

The shooter was the man who had first crossed the Chasm, the brave soldier who should have died the second he cleared the cliff face. Luck, it seemed, was on his side. Imogen knew him by the bloody streaked handprints on his shirt. She couldn't see his face; he wore a helmet with a lowered guard.

Still, she could tell he saw her, and was coming at her.

She went for her sidearm, which she stupidly hadn't pulled until now. All her attention had been devoted to staying by General Lloyd's side, which he had told her was her only duty in the battle.

It wasn't appropriate, he'd said, for her to stay out of the fight. She was a soldier now, the same as hundreds of others, and must do her best. But her priority was to stay near him. He would protect her if he could. She was to shoot at anyone targeting Lloyd's horse.

Her arm came up, but her grip on the gun was weak; she'd have missed even if she had a chance to pull the trigger, which she didn't. The soldier with the bloody handprints had knocked the pistol from her hand in half a second, and his empty machine gun was in the air, ready to come down on her head. Imogen felt, instead of fear, a kind of cold, logical relief. She was going to die an ordinary death – being hit in the head. She wasn't going to explode, be melted, boil in mercury or be hacked to death by a screaming energy ball.

The soldier's gun hovered.

Then Imogen found herself knocked, not to death, but simply aside; the soldier, who was the same height as herself, but made entirely of muscle and sinew, had brushed past her, digging his shoulder into her chest hard enough to put her on the ground, but not hard enough to damage her.

He was aiming for Lloyd; already, he had wrangled himself half-up onto the saddle, and was attacking her master with his makeshift club.

Luckily, Lloyd, being a crater giant, could take a few blows from a machine gun. Bullets could take him down, but not human strength – not even the strength of this obvious madman, who, finding the general didn't collapse, hit him faster and harder, wailing a battle cry.

The sudden brush with death, and reprieve from it, startled Imogen into mental clarity. The first few minutes of the battle had been a chaotic film-reel of scenes from various nightmares. A slide show of death and destruction, explosions, tears and chaos.

Now she realized she wasn't an audience member; she was a participant, with a job to do. Specifically, her job was to protect General Lloyd. The man who had been so kind to her. Who was now in danger of losing his seat to this magnificent, but crazed, Californian wildman.

Imogen found her knife. Found, also, the wildman's back, pointed right at her. She could see his muscles moving under the cloth. He wore no body armor, not even a Kevlar vest. Stupidly, Imogen thought about running to tell her father about the embarrassing state of his army. But he already knew, didn't he? There he was, on the other side of the chasm, overlooking the battle with a tight frown.

Well, she was dressed as a man. Time to act like one.

The blade was only four inches long, and, having been forged over campfire coals in Utah, neither sharp nor strong.

Sharp enough to go in, at least. It took all her strength and a running start, but she got the blade in. On the left side of his back; she was aiming for the heart.

The knife broke off inside the man, and Imogen was left staring, shocked, at the suddenly light handle.

She'd just killed a man.

A Californian, no less.

The man had been on Lloyd's horse, and now his weight slumped backwards; he fell on Imogen, and instinctively, she caught him, tried to bring him gently to the ground.

But he wasn't dead yet. The second his feet hit the ground, he recovered his strength, and, like a wounded animal, turned, lashing out wildly. His elbow caught Imogen's eye socket, and there was an explosion in her head, the sound of breaking glass. Then his fist came around to the other side of her face, once, twice, and she found herself staring up at the sky, a wild collection of dirt clouds, energy balls, flying bullets and mercurial steam.

There was blood in her eyes; she couldn't hear anything.

She saw the indefatigable soldier's running back, trickling blood from the wound she'd inflicted. The blade must still be inside him, but he was up and fighting, unlike her. Her entire face was broken. A tooth sat on the back of her tongue. Already, swelling was setting in, and she knew that in minutes, she would be unable to see out of either eye, or to move her broken jaw.

The pain was so sudden, so shocking, it sent her outside herself, in an almost near-death experience. Consciousness wavered; for a moment, she seemed to be outside her body, looking down at the damage, and raising her eyebrows in surprise and regret that anyone so thoroughly pulped could still be alive.

Dimly, she was aware of Lloyd pulling her onto the back of his saddle. Heard him grunt, "Jesus, Dusty. Oh, god, stay with me."

She felt her arms wrap around his broad chest, and felt him tying her hands together. It was, she realized, to keep her from falling off the horse.

Don't waste your time, she wanted to tell him. Fight. Protect yourself.

But she couldn't speak, and at last, couldn't see anything but the navy cloth on Lloyd's endless field of a back, and couldn't hear anything but the homogenous white noise of battle.


	35. The Battle of the Grand Chasm, Part 2

Leon was wounded. He didn't know how badly; hadn't even felt the moment of impact.

Stabbed in the back. Why had he let that flag-bearer live? He'd been running at the big general, the one who'd asked the Californians to surrender, and brushed right past his skinny assistant. Could have murdered the kid on the way, with a thrust of his machine gun stock to the kid's neck. But he'd recognized the kid, remembered his impression that the kid was terrified, and obviously in the first fight of his life. Decided to only bump him out of the way.

Big mistake.

Well, Leon had caved his face in for him, and the knife wound didn't hurt much, yet. He could punch the kid again for missing the heart. Leon might have been with Imogen by now, if the flagbearer had any better aim.

But no, he was still alive, and the battle still raged. By now, so many ziplines crossed the chasm that in practical terms, a bridge had formed – a bridge about a hundred feet wide, which now looked like a jungle gym in a kid's playcenter. It was covered in people, members of both armies, clambering to the other side. A few mid-air battles took place between combatants; they hung like garments on a clothesline, swaying wildly as they swung at each other with machetes, or drew their guns, or tried to saw through the line supporting their opponent.

Dozens, maybe hundreds, had gone into the mercury now. Watching them fall was ghastly.

Almost as ghastly as the fusion monsters that were starting to rise.

A fusion monster was created when a special type of cannonball, a matter-twister, exploded in the middle of a group of organisms, large or small. For a nanosecond, within the explosion radius, the laws of physics changed slightly; matter rearranged itself, formed new connections. Then, like a hot blade dipped in water, the matter resettled suddenly, solidifying the rearranged matter in its new form, which, unfortunately, often lived for several minutes.

The new beings were monstrosities that lived and died in agony. Their circulatory and respiratory systems didn't work well, so they thrashed around, gasping for air. Often they were controlled by more than one brain, even as many as fifty, in one nightmarish case – human and animal alike, all thrashing in terror, in horror at what they'd become, lumpy, naked, dozen-limbed ghouls. Some had their insides on the outside; some had their skeletons poking through; some were only a mass of limbs, because the heads of the component victims were beneath the skin, nestled in among the organs.

These beings, dying though they were (and they always died shortly; the longest recorded life of a fusion monster was three hours, and that had been composed of only a single human and horse), were often strong and dangerous, if only because of their size.

A matter-twisting ball, all purple, swirling energy, landed not twenty feet to his left, beside a group of Californians – including good old John – working to take down two blue-haired Mormons.

You never heard screams like those of people in the exposure radius of one of those purple balls. Even the poor bastards who fell into the mercury weren't as terrified; at least their deaths would be quick.

The ball swelled once, as if taking a deep breath, then blew, catching five victims; some, it only caught the back half of, since they'd been hurling themselves from it, and they howled as their legs bent in five dimensions, then groaned as they reformed.

The resulting mass was like a spider, with John as the body and five screaming, clawing, nearly-whole people for limbs – three humans, two Mormons. The thing writhed; one of the people-limbs thrashed back and forth quick as a whip, and the human head at the end of it splattered on the ground and spread brains like a squashed watermelon.

Leon ripped the blaster from the arms of a nearby soldier, grunting in pain as he did so. God, his chest, was the blade still in there?

The soldier tried to get his weapon back; Leon blew a hole in him, then, even as his enemy dropped, turned toward the fusion monster. He aimed at the center, the heart of the spider – at the roundish blob with John's gaping, bearded face pasted to the center, gnashing at its own tongue.

Fired once, twice, three times. The gun fired, not bullets, but lasers about an inch thick, and the holes it made cauterized instantly, which meant it wasn't great for killing a creature as big as this. In fact, Leon only seemed to be increasing the thing's agony, which was the last thing he wanted.

Would he ever stop causing pain?

At last, the thing collapsed, letting air out through its four visible mouths, and died. Good thing, too, as Leon's gun ran out of charge.

And still the battle raged.

The mercury river was choked with bodies and weapons. The lava spilled around the charred barrier, which acted as a kind of dam, and created a round pool, the better to catch casualties in.

The zipline-bridge across the Chasm had been reinforced with industrial netting and planks. People were running across it now, even taking horses.

Leon couldn't tell who was winning.

But it pleased him to see that, in spite of the show the Minutemen had made of the Mormons, they hadn't swept the field at all; the sides, it seemed to Leon, were evenly matched.

A terrible noise suddenly squawked across the field, loud as the explosions and screams.

It was electronically amplified, of course, and Leon was close to the source. It was that damn crater giant general, the one he'd failed to kill, the one whose assistant – who was, it seemed, still alive, strapped to his master's back, but bleeding from a face swollen and soft as a sponge – had given Leon the blade he still carried somewhere near his left lung.

The general was screeching some kind of bird-song into a super-powered electronic bullhorn. The sound terrified his horse, made it buck and whirl, but the general kept his seat. Leon couldn't imagine what the sound was for, until he saw that all the remaining Mormons – perhaps a hundred fifty, hundred twenty-five – paused in their respective fights and turned, facing the sound, and exchanged looks with each other.

It was some kind of code – a language the Mormons understood.

What were they going to do?

He saw the bright, angelic beings, most of whom had been separated and engaged in ground combat by the Californians, all begin to attempt to make their way toward the general, gliding in their bizarre, inhuman way, as if they were on invisible skis.

"Don't let them assemble!" he cried. "Stop them! Hold them back!"

Only a few people heard him in the commotion, but others had the same idea; hundreds of Californians swarmed the Mormons, dragging them backwards, shooting.

Some Mormons went down; some Californians, too concentrated to be safe, found themselves electrocuted, sprayed with bullets, or turned into fusion monsters.

Most of the groups scattered again, like ants from an exploded hill, and the Mormons made it to General Lloyd, gathered in a rough, round group, and extended their hands to each other.

Closed their eyes…

God, was another energy ball coming – a giant one, big enough to take out all California's weapons at once?

Leon ran towards the Mormons, as if there were something he could do to stop them, and was still running when a bluish, electric ring, thin as yarn and bright as a laser wire, formed around them. No sooner had it formed then it expanded, blasting its way across the entire battlefield, passing through every man and woman that stood at least four feet off the ground, including Leon.

He looked down at himself, expecting to be cut in half – to fall off his own legs, and lie staring up at them, bleeding from the gaping wound beneath his diaphragm. But he was fine.

Both armies were fine, though nearly all combatants paused long enough to check.

Leon thought that the attack, whatever it was meant to be, had failed.

Then his thoughts vanished – all but one.

He was consumed, absolutely overcome, with the desire to start walking.

As if dragged by a magnet, he turned, and headed in the direction his heart told him to go, without any question of why.

He found himself stalking, zombie-like, towards the Grand Chasm.

And saw the entire California army was walking with him. Like zombies, they trudged dutifully forward, and those who had been closest to the rim reached it.

And jumped in. By the tens, then the hundreds.

Leon drew nearer and nearer to the cliff edge. He could see the molten river at its bottom, the pool swelling over the dam of charred bodies. One by one, his companions were jumping in. He would follow them. Couldn't think of a reason not to.

But someone was trying to stop him. Was pulling at him, then in front of him, pushing.

Leon, focused on his destination, didn't see the person's face; only that it was a man, thin as licorice, dressed all in black.

The stranger ground his shoulder into Leon's chest, pushing Leon's insides into the blade lodged there, somewhere deep, between his heart and lung. The pain cleared his head. For a brief second, he was confused, confused and horrified – what was he doing? Sure, he wanted to die, but honorably, in battle. He didn't want to jump into boiling mercury. That was crazy!

As quickly as the thought had come, it left him, and he was struggling forward again, elbowing at the stranger so rudely trying to save his life. His movements were clumsy, though. He was injured, and all the self defense training he'd had instilled in him was gone along with his capacity for independent thought.

The man pulled Leon's helmet off. Yelled. Words Leon couldn't understand, though they sounded familiar. It was like being spoken to in a dream.

This guy wouldn't leave him alone. Now he was grabbing Leon's head, putting something on it, a band of metal, in place of the helmet.

It slid around Leon's ears – thin and cold and wiry. A piece of it lay straight across his forehead.

And suddenly he could think again.

He found himself staring at Anahuac Jack, who looked much worse for having been through a battle, and the pair of them stopped dead, not three feet from the Chasm edge.

Leon realized he was wearing the Odysseus helmet. That Jack must have been wearing it when the hypnotism wave hit, and it kept him from falling under the wave's power, the same way it had kept Leon from falling under the power of the Infinity Loop.

But the other Californians weren't so lucky. They were still jumping, or aiming to jump, in the thousands.

* * *

Cymbeline sat helpless, unable to do anything but watch as his troops, under the spell of the Mormons, turned themselves toward the Chasm and began walking into it, quiet and inexorable as zombies.

This was how his reign would end – worse than he could have dreamed. Not only a second defeat at the hands of the Minutemen, but a boiling, agonizing death for every one of his soldiers, brought about by the very Mormons he'd accused the Arizonans of making up.

As king, he rarely felt confident about his decisions; the one he made now, the decision to surrender, was the first one he'd been one hundred percent certain of in all the years of his reign.

He rose from his seat. One hand went to his crown, ready to toss it to the dirt; the other went to his throat, to activate his speaker and cry surrender, defeat, to submit to deposition, to offer himself and anything else the Arizonans wanted, as long as the slaughter would stop.

But in the tiny amount of time it took for him to stand up, he saw something amazing. It was that soldier with the bloody bandoliers again, the one who had led the first charge. Unbelievably, not dead, and also, not hypnotized.

He was climbing into the control deck of a matter-twister cannon, which had been left unmanned once the fighting stopped, and the Minutemen, off their guard, paused to watch in awe as their enemy began destroying themselves.

The soldier was accompanied by another man, who didn't wear a uniform of either side. This second man, the man in black, covered the first soldier once they were noticed. A pair of pistols hung from his hips, and he drew quick as lightning. And shot faster. The cannon turned, and fired three times.

Three matter-twisters. Right into the clutch of Mormons, the ones controlling California's armies.

The Mormons tried to scatter. A few, on the edges, made it out.

Most didn't.

The explosions, one after another, swelled over the robed, angelic people, suspending them for a moment in three expanding purple bubbles, one inside another, like Russian nesting dolls. There was the peculiar _zwarp_ noise that accompanied a matter twisting, and then all that was left was a fusion monster, the largest Cymbeline had ever seen, a mountain of flesh and bony faces and powerful, clutching limbs.

There must have been a hundred bodies composing that fusion monster. It couldn't live long, and, indeed, it died within seconds.

At the same time, the Californian army stopped its death-march. Cymbeline's soldiers shook their heads, looked around, and turned back, a little shocked, but no more so than the suddenly horrified, demoralized, and confused Minutemen.

The Californians, furious and focused, turned, and so did the tide of the battle.


	36. Cymbeline's Sentence

Leon sat beside Jack, staring at the smoking, twisted remnants of the Minuteman army. The knife wound no longer hurt; a medical bot had come along, removed the blade in his back, and squirted a healing gel into the wound. He had officially survived the battle.

His expression was blank.

"Ain't you happy you won, kid?" asked Jack.

Leon waved away the cigarette Jack offered him. "All around me," he said, "Terrified people – people who didn't want to be here. Who were desperate not to die. Who would have given anything to live, who turned and tried to run, who screamed and prayed for their lives, people on both sides. So many of them went down. And here I was, running out in front, probably the only one _trying_ to die. But I'm still alive. Me, out of all these people."

"There were a lot of survivors on both sides, kid."

"I saw somebody out there," Leon said, "A boy. He looked like Imogen. I about took his face off. What do you bet he didn't survive? _She_ didn't survive. Imogen, I mean. Why, Jack? Why are they dead, while I'm alive? Why are _you_ alive, you son of a bitch?"

Jack said nothing, just dragged on his cigarette.

His old covered wagon was meandering towards them, followed by the menagerie. Henrietta jumped up on his knee.

Together, the three of them watched the Californian clean-up crew searching for survivors. Living Californians were taken to medical tents; living Minutemen were taken to POW tents.

They would be executed. Thrown into the boiling mercury, as the Californians had been thirty years ago. Cymbeline's orders.

He said he hadn't planned to do it, but the Mormon hypnotism had changed his mind. That kind of war crime – mental rape, forced suicide – could not go unpunished, and he considered all Arizonans present at the battle complicit in the act.

A young crater giant Minuteman with a broken leg sat about ten yards away, crying, as the crews drew nearer and nearer. Jack saw Leon staring at the kid, and knew he was thinking that this was another person who didn't want to die, while Leon sat, suicidal and completely safe.

Without a word, Leon got up and walked toward the kid. After a few steps, he paused, turned, and in a single motion, pulled the Odysseus helmet off his head and tossed it back to Jack.

"Thanks for the loan," he said, "But I can't keep something you worked so hard to earn. Good luck, buddy. Make some money off it." He continued on. Jack didn't like his tone. It sounded like a goodbye.

Henrietta pecked disapprovingly at Jack's ear.

"Too late for me to do anything about it now, babe," said the cowboy. He smoothed back the feather's on Henrietta's beautiful turquoise head, and wondered how long it would be until this damn guilt wore off. It was getting exhausting. And really, hadn't he done enough? Showed up at a Chasm battle, for Christ's sake. He could be a fusion monster by now. And Leon didn't even appreciate having his life saved.

Jack watched in silence as Leon knelt by the crying boy soldier, spoke quietly to him, and then took his shirt off. Now, what in the hell…?

Leon was trading the boy clothes.

When the cleaning crews came, they'd find a Californian and an Arizonan, but would take the wrong one to prison.

Stupid Leon. Didn't he know that it wouldn't bring Imogen back?

"Hey," Jack yelled, as Leon handed the crying kid his bloody shirt. "It's not what she would have wanted."

"She'll forgive me," Leon yelled back.

Jack and Henrietta watched, sharing through their mindlink a mix of sadness, guilt, and anger, as the crews arrived. The boy with the broken leg was hauled off to get his leg set.

Leon was put in handcuffs and led away.

Jack sighed. The crews came for him next. He was recognized as the man who helped aim the matter-twister cannon, and he let himself be led off to a bath and dinner.

* * *

Leon sat in a makeshift cell – a square of metal posts hammered into the ground at five-inch intervals by a machine specifically designed to make battlefield prisons. It was still chugging along, about a quarter mile from his cell, extending the line. Chunk chunk chunk, posts hammering into the ground. It would take all night for the machine to make enough cages to hold the Minuteman prisoners.

There were about five hundred of them, all scheduled for execution in the morning.

To be thrown into the Chasm – man, Leon wouldn't have thought the tottering old king had it in him. But the order had been given.

All down the row, prisoners were sobbing, begging, praying. It was the battlefield all over again, except this time, Leon felt much more certain of attaining his goal. He would die tomorrow. Be free from the crushing guilt, the guilt swamping him, poisoning his breath.

Distantly, he knew he'd won the battle for California, which he still considered his state, and he ought to be proud of that fact. Hell, if he had revealed his identity at the end of the battle, he could probably have wrangled his way back into the country – got his sentence commuted, his record, expunged. He could have gone back into active, full-duty service. Put on the uniform again. Tried for a real life.

Ha.

Somehow, looking back, he couldn't remember any part of his life he'd enjoyed, without seeing Imogen beside him. What fun would surfing be, without her worrying about him breaking his face on a rock or getting eaten by a zark?

How could he sleep, with her face haunting his dreams, night after night after night? Her shocked, heartbroken, wide-eyed rictus. Teeth exposed. He could almost hear her final question. _Why?_

Because she'd cheated? Yeah, ordering her death had been a totally reasonable response. Damn it all.

This would be a good death. Perfect, really, for his purposes.

He was saving a life. Trading his for another. Because of him, a frightened child with every possibility in the world before him would get a second chance, and he, who had ruined his life, and, more importantly, hers, _god, why did it hurt so much?_

The long fall from the cliff, and the terrible end in the boiling mercury, which awaited him tomorrow, were nothing to him. It was the clinging, stinging, agonizing guilt which made him sit with his head hung between his knees, choking on his own sobs. Anyone who saw him would think he was mourning his own death. It couldn't come soon enough. Anything, any pain, couldn't be worse than this.

* * *

In a cell not far down the line from Leon's, Henry Graham stood, pacing side to side. In his pocket, he always carried a small notebook, and that hadn't changed even in battle. The guards, who searched him thoroughly, let him keep it along with a felt-tip pen they felt confident he couldn't use to kill himself or anyone else.

He'd spent hours filling the notebook. Each of the first three pages, three inches by three inches wide, contained personal notes. One for Elena, one for Momma, one for Taz. They were short and blunt. I love you, take care of yourself, nothing original. He wasn't an original man, and anyway, his family knew his strength didn't lie in words.

The rest of the notebook was filled with detailed notes regarding the store. He wanted it to keep running after his death, so Elena would have a means of supporting the family. She'd mostly been in charge of theft prevention and the physical maintenance of the shop. Henry had been in charge of the numbers. He was the one who made orders, talked to contacts, took care of shipping and pricing and payment of contractors.

She'd have to do it all now, and he was writing down everything he knew, in his neat, calm, organized way. His print was small and regular, easy to read as type. Once he'd filled the last page, he looked over his work with a small glow of pride. This would be a better, more meaningful and useful keepsake than any of the mere love letters his fellow prisoners were writing. Some of the more sympathetic Californian officers had given paper scraps or cloth to the doomed prisoners who asked for them, and those who weren't crying were using the last rays of sunlight of the last sunset they'd ever see to write home. Here's what happened, here's what I felt.

Not Henry. He'd spent the sunshine creating a manual with which any brain-owner could walk into the shop and run it as smoothly as he ever had.

On the front of the notebook, he neatly printed the shop's coordinates, and addressed it to his family, then, without sentiment, handed the book through the bars. His guard took it, smiling sympathetically, and added it to his growing collection of prisoners' last messages to their families.

"We'll do our best," was all he could promise, when asked if he was _sure_ they'd be delivered.

Henry wasn't worried about it. He never worried about what he couldn't change. Even the thought of his own death in the morning – though he wasn't looking forward to it – didn't haunt him.

He'd tried to think of a way out, and found there wasn't one. The bars were graphene. They couldn't be broken, and they went too deep to dig under. Even if they had been shallow, there were armed guards watching. No, better to walk his few paces, hum the song in his head, and try to content himself with the fact that he'd lived his life as well as he could have, and had nothing to be ashamed of.

He'd treated Elena right, and paid back his Momma for her work in raising him. Henry regretted the fact that little Taz would grow up without a father, but he didn't regret leaving Elena to raise him alone. She would, he knew, prefer raising Henry's son alone to Henry dying without leaving behind children. Taz would be a comfort to her, rather than a source of regret.

And they'd all live on the tiny empire he'd built – the oasis of civilization in miles of wilderness.

He'd had a good life, and he'd show courage on his way to execution, since it was all he could do.


	37. Execution

The first pale light of dawn rose over the Chasm, casting a dewy sparkle on the trees. The boiling mercury river, which had broken through its dam of human bodies and was now flowing smoothly again, was still in shadow.

The day was already warm – it was always warm, near all that lava – but hundreds of Chasm prisoners were shivering in their cells.

Twenty cells had two bars bent open by a robot, and the prisoners were pulled out; they were lined up and marched to the edge.

Some time ago, a tourist center had been established at the Grand Chasm. Some charming optimists had set up a glass bridge they called the Skyview. It wasn't really a bridge; it didn't cross the Chasm entirely. Instead, it extended out about fifty feet, and was made of thick, heat-proof glass. The idea was that tourists could walk over the Chasm, look down, and see it beneath their feet.

It still stood, and could be used for that purpose, though its builders were long dead. Mercury fumes were viciously poisonous. After a month or so near the canyon, even the hardiest humans sickened. Half a year was enough to kill anyone.

Hell, even some soldiers, who had only been breathing the toxic air for a day, were already beginning to show symptoms of mercury poisoning.

It had been decided, apparently, that the Skyview bridge was to be the point of execution for the Minutemen soldiers.

Leon was among the first twenty who were marched out onto it.

Stepping onto the glass wasn't so different from stepping off a cliff; someone had cleaned the bridge in the night, for the sole purpose, it seemed, of terrifying the doomed prisoners in their last minutes of life, and Leon could see all the way to the bottom, though the view was shadowy. The river was only visible as a ripple, a black ribbon moving through a shadow.

God, it was going to hurt.

Around him, his fellow prisoners shivered wretchedly. Fully half were weeping; one had wet himself during the first steps onto the Skyview.

"They said we'd start at dawn," said one guard, a chubby, fatherly type. Leon found it hard to believe he was capable of shoving this group of helpless young people into the lava. The guard eyed the horizon doubtfully. "We're a little early. Should we wait?"

"No," said a second guard, who _did_ look like an executioner. She was a mountain of craggy angles and a vicious, cutting frown that only deepened as the prisoners' wails grew louder. "What good would that do?"

She turned to the group. They'd been marched onto Skyview in a line, but had lost formation, and now huddled together, a mass of clicking teeth and sobs.

They were surrounded. A line of Minutemen stood to either side of them, pointing bayonets in their faces; rushing them would have done no good. Skyview had been built with tourists in mind, and it had high glass walls on either side. Only the far edge had an opening through which a person could be pushed. It had been blown there last night, in preparation for the executions.

"You," said the harder, scarier guard, facing Leon, who moved to step forward, but he'd been mistaken – the guard wasn't talking to him, but to a shorter, older man who stood in front of him.

Bayonets suddenly separated the old man from the rest of the group; they guided him forward, to the spot where the glass floor ended.

"Congratulations," said guard #2. "Your name will be recorded in history – the first Minuteman prisoner executed after the second Battle of the Grand Chasm, the battle which forever marked California as a sovereign, independent state. "

The chubby, father-like guard held out, of all things, a clipboard, with an ordinary pen hanging from an ordinary bungee clip.

"Print your name here," he said. The old man stared, openmouthed, at the clipboard.

"Come on now," prompted the executioner. "It's a way to make sure your family knows what happened to you."

"I can't write," the old man gasped. His wide eyes were rolling in his head; he was panting. Leon could see his heart beating in his cheek. It was agony.

"Very well," said the first executioner. "What's your name?"

The old man's mouth moved, but no sounds came out, and after a few seconds, the executioners eased him forward, by bayonet pokes to the back, until his toes hung over the glass.

The heat rising from the lava seemed to Leon to intensify. His own heartbeat seemed determined to put him out of his misery, hammering against his brain.

For a moment it seemed the old man might, though petrified, at least meet his end with a measure of silent dignity. But when the thrust came, and he went over the edge, he panicked, screamed, scrambled, and caught himself on the rim. It was a sharp edge, and his grasping hands bled.

"Please!" he howled. "_Please! _God, please, anything else, please – "

"Easy," said the female executioner. "Pretend you're a virgin, and you're stopping a volcano."

Still the old man scrambled. The kind, fatherly guard heaved an enormous sigh, stepped forward, and placed his boot firmly on the old man's head.

Gave a push.

The scream seemed to last for a full minute, and to Leon's horror, the old man didn't die on impact, the way some lucky people had yesterday. He hit the lava toes-first, and his twisted howl wound through the twisting cracks in the land, echoing across the landscape.

From a distance, Leon could hear the other prisoners, the ones still in their cells, give a collective moan.

"Stay pretty, kids, this is for history," said one of the prisoners. He was one of the few that wasn't crying – a short, stocky, plain man with a calm expression and a deformed right leg. His features, sharp and spare, reminded Leon of Imogen. Didn't everything, though?

"Any volunteers?" asked Mean Guard, a weary, unamused smile cracking at the edges of her mouth.

"Me," said Leon.

The others spread away from him like smoke, leaving him alone in the center of a small, withered circle. Only the prisoner with the deformed leg took a moment to clap him on the back.

"Good man," he said, and then he, too, stepped back. He obviously wasn't afraid like the others, but wasn't in any hurry to take his turn off the cliff, either.

Out came the bayonets, but Leon didn't need their guidance. They barely touched his back; he stepped forward, right to the edge of the glass. The notebook was offered to him, and he wrote his name, his real name, Leon Sands. Someone would look at the book later and wonder if it had really been him, or someone impersonating the celebrity who stole away California's princess. Whatever. He'd told his last lie.

The lava rolled beneath him, and heat rose from it, but in the shadowy morning, he could almost imagine it was warm water beneath him. This would almost be like jumping off Crystal Pier into the Pacific ocean. A little longer fall, perhaps. A harder stop.

"Damn, kid," said the friendly executioner. "Aren't you afraid to die?"

"No," said Leon, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. "I'm afraid to live."

The vague fear of burning, somewhere far beneath him, no longer existed. His eyes closed; he waited for the push, thinking of the stupid boy on the battlefield, the one with whom he'd traded clothes. Leon's death, in exchange for that kid's life, would surely do something for him in the eyes of god, wouldn't it? They'd have to let him see Imogen again on the other side. At least long enough to fall in her arms, to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, feel her kiss on his cheek one last time.

God, he was tired. He couldn't wait. For the pain, or for its end.

He wouldn't jump – suicide was still out of the question. This was the last thing he had to do, and he couldn't screw it up, like he'd screwed everything else up. He opened his eyes, stared up at the sky, and waited for the end.

There was a twitch of muscles, a swish in the air – he sensed the movement of the guns behind him, felt their thrust as if in slow motion, felt the distance closing, the breath of air that would precede the thump of impact.

The moment froze.

The impact didn't come.

It froze longer, and Leon resented the executioners – he was ready, _now, now,_ if they waited any longer he might lose his nerve, logic might set back in, fear of pain…

Still, the impact didn't come, and Leon dragged his gaze from the sky.

It fell on Cymbeline.

Who stood, there across the canyon, staring open-mouthed, with one hand in the air, palm forward.

The sign for _stay._ Stop.

The king looked as if he'd seen a ghost. He was white, drained, horrified; Leon thought, in that endless, suspended scene, that if the king's mouth got any wider they'd be in danger of seeing him drool.

"Something the matter, your grace?" called the female executioner impatiently.

"Yes," said the king. Leon jumped a little at how loud the voice was – the king was wearing an amplifier, obviously – and hovered for a moment, almost falling into the Chasm on accident.

The king's voice, though loud, was raspy and without strength.

"I know that man," he rasped, and his voice was even weaker this time, not stronger.

Leon closed his eyes again.

Damn it.

If the king recognized him, why stop the execution? Why not let him die? Wasn't that what he'd wanted all along?

"The executions are to be delayed," said the king. "Forest! Get me across this damned gap!"

The king's right-hand man, a disheveled blinder who was dressed for court, not a war, readied the king's transport, a massive three-wheeler, white with gold filigree. Only a couple wings short of a Pegasus. It rode across the makeshift rope-and-board bridge which had been built yesterday, after the battle.

Leon did not step back from the gap; eventually he was pulled away, and turned, and he watched the fragile, swaying king stumble from his perch on the large vehicle and make his slow way onto the Skyview.

Cymbeline didn't seem to notice he was walking through the center of a crowd of people whom he'd doomed to be thrown off a cliff into a burning river. The prisoners parted, fortunately, with none deciding to take advantage of the king's proximity, and anyway they were unarmed. Still, the guard contingent stiffened, unsure what the appropriate protocol was for a king weaving his way through a crowd of hostile, terrified enemies, and making his way towards a hole that led to a steep drop.

Leon squared his shoulders. Well. Whatever the king wanted to do to him, he'd take it as his desserts. Oh, but god, what if he wanted to know where Imogen was? What if he hadn't heard about her death – what if Leon had to tell him? That was too much, really, he couldn't do it, why hadn't they thrown him in the lava?

But Leon was given a second reprieve.

Once again, inches from falling, the blow changed its mind midair.

"Your majesty," Leon began, "I know you never wanted to see me again…"

"Shut up," said the king. "I don't have time to deal with you right now, Sands. Although _you_" he indicated Mean Guard, "will answer for beginning the executions early. You are extremely lucky that the first to die was not this man."

The king placed both his thin, white-gloved hands on the shoulders, not of Leon, but of the short, stocky man with the deformed leg.

The man, who was the same height as the king, raised his eyebrows to his hairline, but didn't speak. He waited politely for the king to explain himself.

"She was right," whispered the king.

The king grasped at him, touched his face, and the man calmly but quickly seized the king's wrists in self-defense; in an instant, a dozen bayonets were lowered, surrounding the man like a wall of pins.

Again, the king raised his hand in the "stay" gesture.

"Your name," he gasped, "What is your name?"

"Henry Graham, your majesty."

Henry, with his bent leg and invaded personal space, was the only member of the group who retained his calm.

"That mark," said the king, and once again he reached out and touched Henry's face; this time, rolling his eyes slightly, Henry let him. The king ran his finger down Henry's neck to his collarbone, to a large, star-shaped birthmark.

"We called it god's mark," the king said, and he still was gasping at the air, a fish out of water. "The mark of divine right. Your mother," he said at last, "I mean, Dr. Morgan. Sent me a message yesterday. Saw me. Told me an incredible thing. I didn't believe it. But here you are."

"You banished my mother, your majesty," said Henry sharply. "And we haven't disobeyed that order. I'm not in California. Yes, I'm fighting for the Arizona army, but that isn't treason, nor a war crime. You stripped her and my citizenship when you banished us; we can join whatev-"

"Please," gasped the king, and both his hands were on Henry's face now. The witnesses were beginning to look uncomfortable, and even Henry was betraying signs of nervousness – an unconscious flexing and unflexing of the fingers.

"Please," Cymbeline repeated. "No more explanations. You're not accused of anything. And you're certainly not banished. Oh, it can't be true, but I see it, I see it in your face. Gideon. My son. It's you."

The intake of breath from every Californian mouth, including Leon's, could have created a rising sneak all on its own.


	38. Revelations, Part 1

Neither Elena nor Momma had liked the idea of sending Henry off into the wild, knowing full well that he could die, and notice might never reach them; mail service to the middle of nowhere, Utah wasn't a major priority for the Minutemen.

Elena had wanted to be the one to follow him. But the reality was, she'd just had a baby. She was a tough nut to crack, but currently, she couldn't walk without pain.

"Ain't no problem," said Momma. "I've been meaning to get some exercise anyway."

Elena had argued, of course. Momma hadn't shown any symptoms of good health in the last ten years. But she sure showed them now, whipping up a collection of painkillers and swell-reducing unguents from the collection of dry, brittle flora that grew within a hundred feet of the shop.

Soon she'd been in walking order, and she'd followed Henry within a day of his departure, wandering along with the entourage.

Her health had recovered quickly, once the daily exercise began. Weight had fallen off her in the last two weeks. Already she looked more like herself – the self who had left California twenty years ago, a lithe, tall, powerful woman.

Waiting within miles of the battle had been agony. Hearing the news of the Minutemen's defeat had been worse.

She'd gotten close enough to see inside the makeshift prison cells using a borrowed telescope, and had been relieved to see Henry was alive, and only taken prisoner. California had been known, until that day, for its exceptionally civil treatment of prisoners.

Then she'd heard Cymbeline was physically present, and heard his doom pronounced, an echo of the punishment meted out to the California rebels thirty years ago.

Would she stand by and watch her son be thrown into the lava like a vestal virgin? No sir, not today, not if saving him killed her.

So she'd marched up to a Californian soldier and told him she needed to talk to the king.

He'd laughed at her, naturally.

She'd reworded the message: "_Doctor Kalia Morgan_ needs to talk to the king of California, you worthless skidmark. Pronto."

The soldier had gaped.

Even now, twenty years later, her name was something of a horror trope. Doctor Frankenstein, Doctor Mengele, Doctor Jekyll, Doctor Morgan. Fortunately, this soldier, who was older than some of the others, also knew her face. He'd had to look twice – she was shorter and older and much, much rounder than she'd been two decades ago, when her face was plastered across every tabloid in the kingdom – but she knew she was still recognizable.

Bless his heart, the soldier had arrested her. Not for any particular crime – it wasn't like she'd defied her banishment – but for being herself. Momma appreciated it; anything to get her some attention.

Cymbeline had been informed, though it was four in the morning. And as she'd known he would, he'd come to the tent where she was being held.

She'd sat with her cuffed hands in front of her, waiting, overwhelmed with nervousness. Embarrassed about her changed appearance.

Cymbeline hadn't changed much at all. When she'd known him, he'd been a small, nervous, grasshoppery man with thin, dark brown hair. Now his thin hair was streaked with white, and he had a few more wrinkles, and his expression was sadder than she'd ever seen it, but those were the only changes.

Thankfully, he hadn't been bothered by the change in her.

As soon as the tent flap closed behind him, he'd had his arms around her. His lips on hers. And he'd been whispering, "God, Kali, I've missed you. I'm so sorry. God, it's good to see you."

And Doctor Morgan was hard-pressed, between kissing him back and hugging his head to her chest, to keep her mind on the task at hand. To tell him that his son – not _their_ son, _their _son was dead, god help them both, but _his_ son Gideon was very much alive and in danger of being thrown into the Grand Chasm at sunrise.

Which, by the time she finished her story, was only minutes away. She didn't have time to tell Cymbeline what had happened to Imogen; they could only get in the closest vehicle and drive. Her heart stopped when she saw they had begun the executions early, but there was Henry, still very much alive, and Cymbeline had saved him.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, baby," Dr. Mogan said, reaching out to Henry. "You could have been a prince."

"Momma," Henry… no, _Gideon_ said to her, as he was pulled off the Skyview to safety, and caught her in a hug. "We've been dying my hair black since I was a baby. I knew I wasn't your son. And I looked up old newspaper articles on your story, saw the pictures of Gideon. Saw he had my same birthmark. I've known for a while, Momma. Never wanted to go back. What kind of man must this guy be, if he'd abandon a woman like you?"

Nevertheless, Gideon let his father take him in his arms, let him stand back and weep over him.

* * *

The king had lost everything, his whole life. Years ago, he'd lost his wife, his lover, and his sons, all within a month.

Now Imogen was missing, probably dead.

By the time he'd saved Gideon from the lava, he was in a merciful mood.

General Lloyd was brought before him, for negotiations.

Cymbeline was amused to see he'd brought along his shadow, the little flag-bearer who had stood by him so resolutely at the beginning of the battle. The poor boy was in horrific shape. His face was swollen so badly he looked more like a slab of beef than a human; he walked slowly, like an old man – a sign of a back injury – and his hands, black with caked blood, hung uselessly at his sides.

"The insult you have done us by refusing to respect our sovereignty cannot be ignored," the king said.

General Lloyd, who had spent a long night awaiting a painful death, stared wearily through glazed eyes. His enormous, muscled frame was overcome with exhaustion and hunger; too weak to stand, he sat on the ground beside the king, who was gracious enough to call for chairs. The king's throne was brought, and Lloyd and his assistant received makeshift stools. They leaned on each other, with Lloyd's protective arm around the boy, appearing more like father and son than general and page.

"In addition, there is the matter of the war crime committed by the Mormons you recruited," said Cymbeline. He wasn't making eye contact; he never did at negotiations, as it made him lose his nerve. Instead, he focused on adjusting his crown, trying to get the damned metal band to lie straight for once. Somewhere in the background, he knew, Dr. Morgan was watching, and he wanted to appear regal and competent for her sake.

"Thought control, in war or otherwise, has been banned by the North American Nations Convention for fifty years. Arizona is a part of that treaty. Yet you gave the order, Lloyd. An honorable man like you. Why?"

Lloyd squared his shoulders. "I'm a soldier first, your grace. _My_ orders came from higher-ups. From the governor's office. I followed them. Questions of international law, and whether or not to break it, are above my pay grade."

"Nevertheless," said Cymbeline, "You and your officers are going to pay, because someone must. I'm willing to spare the foot soldiers. The Mormons that were captured disappeared in the night. You didn't mention they were burrowers."

"You didn't ask."

Cymbeline wasn't amused. "Here is my sentence, Lloyd, and though my first wave of anger has passed, it's a hard one. If you sign the statement of surrender we've prepared for you, along with a confession of the war crimes you've committed, you and your officers will be executed – you _only_. Your soldiers will be spared. And we'll call it mercy – a mercy you did not show to my men."

General Lloyd's page tightened his arms around the crater giant's rib cage, and buried his small, bruised face in Lloyd's uniform jacket.

The crater giant's plastic, hard features betrayed no emotion, but Cymbeline couldn't help noticing a shudder in his chest. Relief or fear, who knew? Lloyd might have thought, given the pardons this morning, that he would escape the lava. Or he might have thought the executions had only been delayed, and was relieved to hear his men would be spared.

Either way, he reacted as Cymbeline had known he would: Properly, with dignity and tact, and without any undue pleas for the king to change his mind.

"Your mercy is noted, king, and will be recorded in the histories of my state as well as your own. If I am to die, however, I hope you'll consider that payment enough for the actions of my country, and not hold it against me after my death. I hope you'll remember the friendship we once shared, and for its sake, do me one favor."

Here, the crater giant stood, and the boy next to him wearily came up beside him, half-asleep, leaning his entire slight, but long, frame against the general.

"Ask," said Cymbeline.

"This boy," said Lloyd, "Has been my friend and comforter for weeks now. He's the best-hearted, truest, sweetest kid you'll ever meet. And he's badly wounded. I see it's no longer California's policy to give medical care to enemy soldiers, but again, for the sake of our friendship, and respect for the fact that I'm going to die today, please, get him help. Take care of him. Find him a home. He's nobody's enemy, just a boy from Utah, who blew into my tent during a storm. I brought him here against his will."

"Not exactly true," murmured the boy, who was half-asleep. "I'd have followed you anywhere, General. And you're not going to die today."

"From Utah?" Dr. Morgan's voice sure carried. Cymbeline sighed. He'd hoped to keep her in the background until the war was wrapped up. Really, he couldn't deal with more than one complication at a time.

But here she came, larger than life, brushing him aside, and running at General Lloyd and the pageboy. Gideon trailed behind, his jaw hanging like a mudflap.

"DUSTY?" cried Dr. Morgan, and she swept the boy, who stood nearly a foot taller than her, into a vicious, crushing hug before anyone could stop her. "I thought it looked like you, but couldn't tell, your face was so busted, then he said you were a boy from Utah, and I looked closer…"

"And then we heard your voice," finished Gideon. "Dusty, is it really you? God, we thought you were dead."

To everyone's amazement, especially Cymbeline's, the boy was now hugging Doctor Morgan back, and he let Gideon in on the hug too. "I thought I dreamed you," he whispered tearfully. "Woke up in the desert next to… to the body, and didn't remember how I got there, but you'd been so nice to me, I thought I must have made you up."

"No, no, baby. But you were dead! How…?"

"I see," said Lloyd dryly, "You aren't going to have any trouble forgetting me, Dusty. Glad you've found your friends."

"You aren't going to die," repeated Dusty, in a high, gentle, confident voice, but everyone ignored him…

Except Doctor Morgan, who whispered, "I suspect not, huh, kiddo?" and winked. She had already pulled out her medkit and was smearing desweller on the kid's face; his features lost their about-to-pop look almost immediately, and two bright brown eyes became visible.

In the atmosphere of celebration, Cymbeline's naturally generous spirit rose, and he became a bit braver. Brave enough to do what he wanted to, for once, which was to spare General Lloyd's life. But he would do it in a fun way.

He joined the circle giving undue attention to the pageboy, who had somehow become the star of this scene, not that Cymbeline grudged him the attention. "Lad," he said, "Your eyes remind me of my daughter Imogen, who was lost in the wastes several months ago. For her sake, not only will I grant General Lloyd his wish, and see you taken care of. I'll also grant you a royal favor – any special favor you want, within reason. A house. A jewel. A meeting with a celebrity. A stay of execution. Anything you can think of."

He said this with a fatherly wink, feeling that the boy began to look more and more like Imogen every second, as the swelling in his face went down. He was even tall, the way Imogen had been, and his voice, though low, was like hers; he must be from California originally, judging by his accent.

The boy smiled weakly, and turned to his master.

"Dusty," said Lloyd, "Before you ask him to spare me, consider – "

"I'm not going to ask him to spare your life," said Dusty.

That shocked them all a bit. There was a cold pause.

Cymbeline worried, but the boy was smiling, and everyone seemed to love him. He trusted that the boy had something better planned, and waited patiently to hear how he would use his genie's wish.

Lloyd wasn't so confident. He pulled his eyebrows together in an expression of hurt so strong that it was slightly visible to the observers.

"Dusty!" cried Gideon. "Think about what you're doing, now."

"I have thought about it," said Dusty. "And don't worry. Any of you. General Lloyd is going to be fine, I swear it, but in the meantime, there's something I have to deal with right away. Some_one_, who's going to get away if I don't act now. My wish, good king," he said, turning to Cymbeline, who was surprised to note that the boy had adopted the posture and slight head inclination that was the standard protocol for royal requests in Castle Santa Clara, "Is that your guards go stop that man – " he pointed "from escaping, bring him to me, and make him answer my questions."

Every head turned and focused on the back of a wiry man, all in black, who had been near the front of the gathered crowd, and was now sneaking away, cartoonishly lifting and lowering his booted feet in a ridiculous, high-stepping tiptoe to keep them from making noise on the dry, grassy gravel. It was one of the two men who had escaped the hypnosis wave. He wore a cowboy hat and had long black hair, and he must not have heard the conversation, because his speed didn't change. He continued sneaking off, not knowing that thirty pairs of eyes were fixed on his skinny back.

Cymbeline, in his exhaustion, nervousness, and general shock from yesterday, found himself amused. Delighted.

The boy, Dusty, had a rather crazed look in his eye, and Cymbeline had no doubt that whatever he wanted to say to the man in black, it would make a good show.

"Seize him," he said, and guards had the man in black by both arms instantly.

The man didn't fight; he seemed so surprised to be the center of attention, he only looked from side to side, wide-eyed, and then let his feet hang on the ground, scratching two paths, like a cat being dragged to a bath. He was seated on the ground in front of Dusty, who still held Lloyd's hand, as if to remind him he hadn't been forgotten.

"Answer the boy's questions," said the king, and the man in black turned to Dusty with chagrin written all over his rugged, handsome features.

"That Odysseus helmet," said Dusty. "Where did you get it, Anahuac Jack?"

Cymbeline hadn't noticed it before, because it was mostly covered by his cowboy hat, but the man – Jack, apparently – was indeed wearing an orienter that looked very like the genuine Odysseus helmet that was kept in Imogen's treasure room at Castle Santa Clara. The one that had been a wedding gift to Cymbeline.

Jack removed his hat, and Cymbeline leaned in. The orienter had elaborate filigree, and a polished shine, and the design was very similar…

"That IS an Odysseus helmet!" he cried. "THE Odysseus helmet! MY Odysseus helmet!"

Jack's chin buried itself in his collar.

"Where did you get it?" cried the king. "It was in my daughter's room!"

"False," said Dusty. "Your daughter gave it away. To Leon Sands. How'd you get it from him, Jack?"

"Knew it was you, kiddo," the cowboy mysteriously retorted. But after just a little poking, Jack let out a massive, heaving sigh. "Since I'm tired of hiding all this, and it looks like I'm caught anyway, I'll tell you how I got it_._ You're right, I got it off Leon Sands. He wanted some passports to Canada for him and the princess. We made a bet – that if I could get the princess to sleep with me willingly, and prove it, he'd give me this. Worth a fortune. I thought. Turned out to not be worth much. I ain't had a second of peace since I won it."

"That you could sleep with the princess? Of California? My _daughter?_" stuttered Cymbeline. "She's been missing for months – are you the reason? Put this man in cuffs!"

Guards leapt forward, but Dusty waved his hand, and his voice cut them short as if it had been a brick wall. "No need for that."

In his weariness and confusion, Cymbeline didn't question the flouting of his order. He did notice Leon Sands, whom he had not yet had time to deal with personally, making his way forward from the back of the crowd, with an expression like a soot storm.

"You were able to convince the exiled Leon Sands that princess Imogen had slept with you, and he gave you that crown, is that right? Are you certain you didn't murder him for it?"

"I convinced him," said Jack slowly, drawing his fingers down his mustache as if deep in thought, but letting the words flow without interruption, "by showing him a gem stolen from the princess's navel. A gem she couldn't have lost by accident, that meant the world to him and her, and a few other choice pieces of photo and video evidence that would have convinced any sane person I was telling the truth. The _real_ truth, your majesty, so you don't worry about it, is the girl wouldn't let me touch her. True blue, that one, and a tough cookie, too. 'Bout broke my head when I tried to make a move. I had to sneak into her bedroom to get the stuff. Which this…_boy_ already knows, or believe me, I wouldn't be confessing it."

"JACK, YOU SON OF A BITCH," came a low voice, throaty with yelling, and Cymbeline didn't have to look up to know who it came from. This was turning into a regular who's who, and would have been funny, if it hadn't concerned his still-very-missing daughter.

Leon Sands burst from the pack of bodies like a rattlesnake, and had kicked Anahuac Jack in the throat, popped his eardrum, and nearly broken his neck before the guards decided to intervene.

There was a lot of screamed nonsense – a lot of "bastard"s and "tear your heart out"s and cursing and accusations on Leon's part, and coughing and spluttering on Jack's part, but really, in the ensuing fight, Cymbeline only noted two things of consequence. First, that Leon cried, "You killed her! You killed her, you fucker!"

Imogen was dead, then, and the only good breaking up the fight would do would be to give him the gory details…

And, second, Jack crying back, "I didn't kill her, you blind idiot, and neither did you! She's still alive!"

_That,_ when nothing else would, stopped the fight.

"What?" Leon panted, sweat dripping from his lank, greasy curls. The boy had left California a gleaming specimen of manhood, and it had been easy to see why a princess would give up her crown for him. Now he was so brown and filthy, his tattoo was barely visible, even writhing and snapping on his face as it was. His teeth were brown – his chapped lips had bled on them – and his eyes were red and bleary.

"You took Hector's word for it that she was dead," Jack snapped, "And I can't say I blame you. Kid seemed pretty trustworthy. Turns out, you shouldn't have trusted him any more than you trusted me."

"What are you…" Leon said again, but broke off, because yet another bizarre event had taken place.

Dusty, Lloyd's mysterious page, who still hadn't revealed how he planned to save the general's life, had wrapped both his spindly arms around Leon.

"Told you so," said Jack. "Made of crazy."

"Get your hands off me," Leon said nervously, then, much louder, his voice breaking with frantic frustration, "Let me GO, kid!"

He ripped the boy's arms away, and tossed him back at Lloyd, who caught him smoothly.

"Now, you ungrateful sack of crap," said Jack, who was lying on the ground, trying to recover from his injuries. "You go on and on about how you want her back – but you see her again, and throw her away. Don't even recognize her. Some husband you are."

Cymbeline, who had been watching the exchange like it was a scene in a movie, so confused as to be emotionally detached, took a few seconds to register the meaning of the words.

Leon, too, frowned and blinked and gawked in confusion.

As one, the king and the soldier turned to get a better look at this tall boy, this "Dusty," whose bruises were fading, whose swollen eye sockets had at last shrunk back to a normal size.

As one, they saw what Jack was talking about.

Her breasts were bound flat, somewhere under that filthy, once-white pageboy uniform, and her hair was short and dyed; her eyebrows, which had always been neatly sculpted, were wild and dyed as well, and her face was bloody and battered, scuffed in a dozen places.

But there were her bright brown eyes. Her little, sharp nose, the crisp lines of her lips.

Imogen.

Rising to her feet and smiling up at Leon Sands like he was the sunrise.


	39. Revelations, Part 2

"You're right about General Lloyd," Cymbeline was saying. "I certainly won't execute a man who saved my daughter's life."

But for Leon, the world went silent. He didn't understand a thing that was happening. Didn't understand why the executions had stopped, what the deal was with the king and the once-evil Doctor Morgan, didn't understand how Hector had fooled him, or why the Minuteman pageboy had transformed, before his eyes, into Imogen, Imogen whom he'd killed, Imogen whom he'd been praying for.

He only knew she was there, with a twinkle in her eye, holding her arms out to him, forgiveness written all over her pretty face.

At some point, in that swirling, rushing moment in which nothing moved or spoke, but the world around him flew away like so much dust under a rotor, he fell to his knees.

"I killed you," he whispered.

"You overestimate yourself, Sands," she said. "It would take more than a surfer bum to kill a princess of California." But she was joking. The twinkle stayed firmly planted in her eyes, and she stepped into his outstretched arms, which wrapped around her waist like vines of ivy.

He buried his face in her bloody shirtfront. Memories washed over him – Jesus, he was the one who'd pulped her face on the battlefield! And just now, he'd tossed her against Lloyd, he could have killed her again…

Her fingers were combing through his curls in gentle, regular strokes.

"I thought you were dead, too," she said, and bent to kiss him at the hairline. The motion pulled her body away from him briefly, and he shoved himself back into her, crushing his nose into her navel, letting her clothing catch his tears.

"A while ago," she said, "I woke up in the desert beside a headless body wearing your uniform, with your tattoo. Who that poor man was, I don't know, but the sight of him – of you, cut down, beside me, made me forgive you all your mistrust of me. All your impulsiveness, all your idiotic trust of that. Man." Here, she turned a poisonous eye on Anahuac Jack, who turned three shades of blue.

That man. Leon didn't let go of Imogen. He never would again, if he had any power to prevent it. But he did turn, still on his knees, to face the prone cowboy.

"As the princess, unless my father prevents it…" Imogen looked at Cymbeline for confirmation. "I am going to see that man punished for what he's done to us. The lies he's told, that ruined my reputation, that drove you insane, that nearly killed us both. His punishment, Leon, will be yours to decide. What would you like done with him?"

Leon met Jack's eyes.

He remembered the horror, the ice that had seemed to melt over his body as he heard Jack's tale of Imogen's unfaithfulness. Fury boiled up inside him.

And washed out, like water through a sieve.

He was full of holes, literal and figurative, and could not hold anger any longer.

Especially not after the crushing, unforgivable mistake of his own.

"Buddy," said Jack.

"Shut up," said Leon. "And get out of here. Don't tell any more lies. Take your menagerie, make it a petting zoo, put on your shows, make an honest living. Find your girlfriend in Vegas. Marry her. Make yourself happy, Jack. I forgive you."

Magnificent and polite as ever, Jack managed to rise; he even found the strength to bow his injured body to the couple, who were still latched onto each other and not paying him the slightest bit of attention. To the king, he tipped his hat; to the assembled crowd, he raised an eyebrow and smirked.

And then he was gone, running like hell, his thin figure making a silhouette thin as an ocotillo whip against the sunrise.

"I don't understand any of this," mumbled Cymbeline, pulling Dr. Morgan closer to him. She wrapped her stout arm around his waist.

"Neither do I, father," said Imogen. She'd gone to her knees, now, and had Leon in a vicious hug; his eyes were closed, and his mouth was pressed to her shoulder. They rocked there, glued together with relief.

"If you're wondering who the dead man you woke up next to was, I can help with that," piped up Gideon. "Said his name was McGowan. He came after you. We thought he killed you."

"Bianca sent him," Cymbeline confirmed. "He had just gotten that tattoo. Think he was trying to win Imogen's heart with it. You cut his head off? Well. No matter. Every future king gets one free kill."

"Really?"

"Don't get excited. You've used it."

Henry laughed. "But how did you survive?" he asked Imogen. "Momma's a doctor. She said you were dead."

"I think _I_ can answer that," said the king, relieved at last to know something the others didn't. "Shortly after Imogen's escape, a blinder in charge of security committed suicide by poison, or so we thought. Two days later, she came to life on the autopsy table, and said she'd been poisoned by the queen. The same thing happened several more times this month. A pharmacist confirmed the queen had tried to withdraw Pasitherol from the pharmacy, but had been given Comatrox instead. Her victims have been waking up and testifying against her. We've come to suspect the queen's treachery in other areas. She's on her way here now, to be tried, though she doesn't know it yet. Is it possible she tried to poison your supplies, Imogen?"

"Yes," Dr. Morgan said. "Our Dusty took a palace-issue dose of liquid right before he 'died.' What do you bet the queen gave it to her?"

"A friend gave it to me, and said it was a gift from the queen," Imogen said. "I'm sure he thought it was good. God, Leon. Hector. We have to find him."

"We will," Leon murmured. "So long as we're together. Forgive me, forgive me, princess. Divorce me, go and find someone worthy of you, but please, please, forgive me."

Smiling through her tears, Imogen brushed her fingers gently over his ears. On the left one, she found the Joystone, replaced.

"Wear it," she said, "As a reminder."

"Forever," he swore.


	40. Three Happy Endings

Bianca was annoyed, and when she was annoyed, people suffered.

Specifically, blinders suffered.

"MUFFIN!" she shrieked, causing an albino girl at her side to jump in fear and drop the tea set Bianca insisted be ready at all times. She didn't even like tea, but guests were certainly impressed when she offered it to them.

"Damn it!" Bianca cried. "That china was imported from Maine, you clumsy slut! It's priceless! And it's coming out of your paycheck!"

Bianca often made this threat, and not as a joke. She'd genuinely forgotten, years ago, that the blinders were not paid for their services.

"And WHERE IS MY MUFFIN!"

Muffin did not refer to a food. Bianca, naturally, didn't eat carbs. She was looking for her lap dog, a red Pomeranian who would look fantastic with the giant fur stole she was wearing on her trip to the field of victory. The fur was part of a fantastic, post-apocalypitc leather-and-rivets onesie that she thought looked quite threatening. Crossing the field of unburied bodies and rising smoke, she'd look like a barbarian queen after a buffalo hunt.

In reality, her perfectly contoured makeup and sugar-blonde Shirley Temple curls somewhat spoiled the effect. She looked a bit like a losing entry in the early stages of Project Runway.

"The dog isn't with us, your majesty," said the blinder girl, Shusha.

"Not with us? Why wouldn't my dog be with us?"

"Because we're on a three-person bike, on a battlefield, and you never said to bring him, your majesty!"

Bianca let out a high-pitched echo of these pathetic excuses, then raged, "I have made it clear time and again that my dogs are to accompany me at all times. AT ALL TIMES!"

"No, you didn't," the girl started to say, but she shut her mouth halfway through. Too late.

"Dirk!" cried the queen. "Throw Shusha off. Let her walk home, see if the journey cleans out her ears."

Dirk scowled. He was her giant blinder bodyguard, and also Shusha's brother.

He did not throw her off.

"WELL?" asked the queen after a pregnant moment. "Am I going to have to tell the king about your act of treasonous defiance, or are you going to follow orders?"

The bike was traveling close to fifty-five miles an hour, which was its top speed on the rocky hills that separated Arizona from California. To be thrown off would mean death – maiming at absolute best – and there wasn't help, a phone, or a supply shop around for miles.

The heat and wind were beginning to get to Bianca; her leather jumpsuit, while it protected her from flying debris, was also hot as hell, and it had cooked away all her patience.

"Throw her off! OFF, I said! Are you going to defy your queen?"

"Interesting you should phrase it that way," said Dirk, "As you are no longer the queen."

Shusha smiled. Bianca exploded.

"ExCUSE me? Excuse me, sweetheart, bunny bear, Dirk, my thrice-blessed, much loved, treason-spouting slave, WHAT did you just say to me?"

Dirk tightened his hold on the controls. "Were you not informed? The king declared you divorced today. You're not coming to the battlefield as a queen. You're coming as a prisoner."

To Bianca's credit, she fought with all her might. She was pouncing on Dirk, biting his exposed neck, before the words were entirely out of his mouth, screaming to the escort vehicles for help.

The drivers stared straight forward, focusing on navigation. The passengers, courtiers and their servants, mostly, only watched her, strange expressions playing across their faces.

Smiles.

Smirks.

Yawns.

"What the HELL is going on?" Bianca shrieked, but there was nothing she could do. Dirk was a rock, a mountain she couldn't budge or hurt, and Shusha, she found upon turning to her for help, was holding a pistol straight out in front of her.

"No closer, bitch," said the blinder girl. Her voice shook, but her shooting arm was steady.

Hours and hours later, or maybe it was only one hour – Bianca hated travel – the queen's voice was hoarse with screaming threats and insults, and at last they arrived outside the king's tent. It was larger than the others, and bore the royal seal, but other than that, it was just the same as the tents of his fellow-officers. Same material, no borders, no extra flags. Bianca could have thrown up. She'd specifically told Cymbeline that, even on the battlefield, dignity and ceremony must always be maintained. Nobility flourished largely because of superstition, a religious belief of the peasantry that royals were better than them in an intangible, magical sense. If a king had one job, it was to maintain that illusion.

Honestly, Cymbeline would be nothing without her. He'd be living in a refrigerator box on Ocean Beach without her. Might end up living in one anyway, for being so lax in his rule that his servants thought they could treat a queen this way.

As Bianca was led into the tent by two large guards, each gripping one of her straw-thin biceps, she was prepared to tell him so.

There he was, doofy, awkward and unkempt as ever.

But beside him…

Oh, god.

Beside him, a hundred pounds heavier and twenty years older, but recognizable nevertheless, stood Doctor Kalia Morgan.

Alive.

She was holding the king's hand.

In her other hand was a tiny vial of clear liquid. One like the many poison vials Bianca had handed out around the castle.

Bianca squared her pointy shoulders, tossed her blonde head. She could get out of this. She could. Cymbeline could be talked out of anything, as easily as he could be talked into it.

"Hail, hail, hail!" she cried. "Defender of my kingdom, lord of my soul, king of – "

"Cram it, Suzy Q," interrupted Doctor Morgan. "I told him everything I should have told him twenty years ago. He's learned a little more about you in that time, and he believes me. Choose wisely." She held up the vial, wiggled it a little. A few cute, placid bubbles rose from the liquid; it looked cool and fresh as water. Bianca knew better. "Think about it good, former queen," said the doctor. "Because it's this – Pasitherol – or the lava. Also, word of advice, might want to bow in the presence of royalty."

Doctor Morgan wore a woven platinum ring, shoved over her chubby finger.

Bianca could have bitten it off, sausage that it was, and if she had, the venom coating her mouth would surely have poisoned the good doctor.

Instead, she felt the pressure of a bayonet on the back of her knees, and, horrified, helplessly sunk into a kneeling position.

"Mercy," she said, and Cymbeline's forehead wrinkled, but Dr. Morgan's expression didn't waver.

"A toast," was her reply. The poison vial went into a champagne flute, which, in turn, was carried to Bianca on a silver platter.

"You can't choose her," Bianca spat. "You can't. Look at her. Look at me. I made you, you – you weakling! You idiot!"

Dr. Morgan opened her mouth, but Cymbeline spoke first. "Darling, I just won the hardest victory every fought by our kingdom, and did it with no one by my side. I've come to realize I don't, in fact, need you. I don't need anyone. Though there is someone I _choose_." He put his hand over Doctor Morgan's. "No, don't speak, Bianca. I _am_ looking. _Have_ looked. And in the words of my new wife, you are as ugly as they come. Drink." He leaned back. "The king commands it."

* * *

Imogen and Leon were inseparable, and no one was inclined to protest this time. Imogen was no longer heir to the throne; Gideon was. And Cymbeline, without Bianca hissing over his shoulder, was in no mood to cause his daughter any further difficulties in love.

In any case, he had a new set of difficulties to deal with – namely, introducing the kingdom to its new queen, the supposedly evil Doctor Morgan.

And the queen in waiting, Elena Graham, whose first hollered request was that the damn blinders be set free, because she didn't keep no damn slaves in her house.

And third in line to the throne, the Tasmanian Devil himself, waste mutant Taz Graham. Taz Alameda, once all the names were straightened out, with his horns and his tail, presented more of a threat to California's sanity than a prince with tattoos and piercings ever could have.

Fortunately, his father, Gideon, knew better than to put up with any crap – from his son, or the people. And he knew, having seen the people's reaction to the wild shift in the palace after Bianca's death, that all they needed to stay happy was a good story.

He sold the movie rights to his biography immediately, and used the funds to repair dozens of roads throughout California.

Elena's attitude and Taz's mischief gave the people comedy.

Cymbeline and Dr. Morgan gave them drama.

Imogen and Leon gave them romance.

And that, with Gideon's calm, firm decisionmaking, and Cymbeline's newfound strength, was all they needed for many years of happiness in the kingdom of California.

* * *

Some years later, Anahuac Jack stopped at an oasis near Flagstaff, Arizona. His menagerie followed him, in two wagons, now, both of which were large and state-of-the-art. He'd splurged after selling the Odysseus helmet. Had ten more animals to take care of now, including two new ostriches – one for him, and one for Apolla. She liked traveling, and so did he. They hadn't bought a house yet, or spent a hundredth of their money.

At the oasis, Jack looked in the distance and saw a Minuteman militia approaching. He was technically banned in Arizona, and he didn't want to get caught, so he began packing up the family, but at the last moment, he looked back, having seen a familiar face.

It was that crater giant from the Second Battle of the Grand Chasm, and who was that at his side? A dark-haired pageboy.

Couldn't be the princess, could it? After all that hullabaloo, with all her choices, she'd gone back to being a soldier in a man's army?

But no, a closer look, through a digital telescope he placed over his eye like a monocle, revealed that the boy beside Lloyd was shorter than Imogen, with long hair, and a shy, sad expression. Hector. Still alive.

He walked beside the general's horse.

His hand was laid affectionately on Lloyd's leg.

"Whaddya know," said Jack to Apolla.

"More'n you," she answered, and Henrietta, in agreement, pecked Jack's ear. They took off, aiming east.

The west was nothing but trouble.

**THE END**

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Always review.  
**


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